Suppertime. And it’s quite a little dinner party there in Bethany. All twelve disciples of Jesus are there, as is Jesus Himself, for whom the dinner was made.
Curiously enough, Lazarus – the friend of Jesus who never uttered a recorded word – is there, too. And this is after his four-day journey to the pit.
Martha is there, of course, being Martha, and making things happen.
And in comes Mary. She’s carrying an alabaster box. With all the movement and conversation as people recline at a Middle Eastern dinner table, I doubt very many people notice her at first. But that’s OK. Mary wasn’t interested in being noticed. She was interested in something – and Someone – much greater.
That said, no one could escape the fragrance that filled the room. It penetrated everything, everyone, everywhere.
Is that nard?
Nard it is.
That’s expensive stuff. To say nothing of the now-broken box that carried it.
Where is that coming from? [click to continue…]
I have always loved horses.
Ever since I looped one of Mama’s belts for a stirrup and mounted the arm of our couch, using a bent coat hanger for a cowboy hat (we wuz broke back then), I have loved horses.
Ever since the days of Trigger and Silver, “My Friend Flicka,” and Black Beauty, I have loved horses. I love the faithfulness of their companionship. I love the elegant beauty they demonstrate when they race. I love their strength and power, which remains to this day the standard by which mechanical engines are measured.
Even now, horses turn my head and, if it’s available, my camera. They’re just magnificent animals.
That said, I’ve rarely ever actually ridden a horse. Only galloped once – thought I was sure to take the dirt nap, or at least have dirt for dinner. [click to continue…]
I had an experience a few years ago that moved me more than anything had in months or years. And to this day, I’m still not sure why, and/or why it moved me on that particular day.
It was a Sunday afternoon. The house was quiet and I was alone. I lay down on the bed and started watching a rerun of “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” I’d seen the movie several years earlier, and for whatever reason, decided to watch it again.
I had already gotten pretty weepy at a couple of places in the movie. But at the climax of the film, when Mr. Holland sees the lives he has impacted, and hears the governor, once his student, say, “Mr. Holland, we are your opus,” my guts turned inside out. It hit a nerve – a deep, raw nerve – like nothing had in years – perhaps ever.
By this time I was sitting in the den, alone in the house, sobbing. [click to continue…]
This is another response to my request for love stories. I’m still looking! Who has taught you about the real meaning of love? How have you experienced it? Email me at [email protected] and share what you have observed, learned, or experienced.
The following was originally written by Joel, my son, on February 28 last year. It’s a powerful story of friendship that transcended social and racial barriers, and started with a plane crash in a Vietnamese rice paddy. (You can read more of Joel’s good stuff at http://anyidleday.com).
[click to continue…]