Breaking the Alabaster Box

Friends, I'm not sure why I wrote this, it was a part of the bible that really touched me. Alot of this is obviously creative license, the dialogue between characters, back ground stories etc is mostly my imagination.




I guess when I look at some of the details of my own life i found that I could relate to the release this woman found when she found grace. i decided not to go into to much detail about Jesus, I even stayed away from naming him, I'm not sure why, I just didnt feel like I should have.



Oh and just quickly, the word used here; "Hetaerae" is the greek word that was commonly used throughout the mediteranean for Prostitute. again it is only asumption to say that the "alabaster box woman" was actually a prostitute, and even though it is a popular opinion the word simply says she was a "woman caught in sin".



enjoy bellas.



x



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But what could she offer him? She had nothing, she stood outside of the house where the son of man was dining. Unlike the other gatherings usually hosted at this house this one was seemingly quiet, still, relaxed with just small hint of fear, something was in the air, something so pungent, and yet so distant. The hetaerae could not place it.





Her hands on her hips the hetaerae sighed and felt defeated, her many bangles clattering against each other she looked up to the night sky in frustration. If only this man had been like other men, if only she hated him with a blazing passion like she did the many men who frequented her house.



The difficulties in seeing this man seemed to mount one upon the other, she could not invite him into the house where she lived, her place of business, she did not want to shame him in the streets by walking up to him in front of the many watchful citizens of Bethany. Instead she followed him at a distance to the house of the man known as Simon the leper



She’d followed him all afternoon, her make up had melted in the heat, the dark kohl she’d worn around her eyes had begun to fade with perspiration and the henna on her lips had become a faint pink. The perfume jar all Hetaerae wore around their necks had bled its scent like a tap in the heat of the afternoon sun and now that night had settled the heady aroma had diminished and left behind a lingering vapour of juniper.



She clutched the vial of perfume as she worried, a habit she had developed over the years. She’d traipsed behind him and his followers since midday, stopping in the shadows of an arch a street away, watching from behind a corner where she could not be spotted. At one point she had even walked along the roof tops, keeping her eye keenly fixed on the tall, dark featured man in white bellow her on the street, the only evidence of her presence was the silhouette of her figure cast haphazardly onto the market stall roofs and shade cloths.



All of this it seemed had been for nothing, she had stupidly decided to seek him out and yet had not thought to bring him any gifts, again she handled the vial of perfume around her neck, clasping its little alabaster frame in her fingers. She usually wore the vial under her shift, where it could not be seen. The little vial was a symbol of what she was, a beacon to all around her, it was a tool of her trade, it was so each man that visited her could smell nothing of the man that had been there sometimes moments before. It said simply to all who saw her, that she was a prostitute, she was hetaerae.



Two men passed her on the street and spotted the perfume jar around her neck, they saw her many bangles and layers of neck laces made from semi precious stones, the saw the ear rings of lapis lazuli and the diadem of carnelian worn on her head. One of the men regarded her with a somewhat curious disgust, muttering a curse in Greek to his friend as they passed her, the other man nodded obediently agreeing with the other mans outrage, yet he said nothing, he saw her, she saw him, he was a customer.



Self consciously she pulled her veil around her. What was she to do? Stepping into the enclosed privacy of an alley she leaned against the wall,



“how can I go before the son of man as I am, these common folk scorn me, even those who have known me, I have no right”



Yet something pulled at her heart, pulled in the direction of the house. she’d often been described as brazen, yet this was not the same, this feeling was courage. She knew what she must do, she slipped off the diadem, unclasped the lavish necklaces and removed the bangles from her wrists. Just as she went to discard the alabaster jar she stopped and looked down at the small innocent container. She would anoint him, surely his feet would be washed after such a long humid day, she would anoint his feet with the perfume, but she would only use a little bit, she still had to get back to work later that night.



Holding the jar in her hand she strode around the corner and walked through the open door of the house.



Walking through the simple and small courtyard she passed a servant carrying a platter of stuffed pheasant, the smell was delicious, yet she kept walking, she could not afford to be thrown out, time taken to stop was time wasted. Walking through an arch way she stepped into the midst of the dining room, she looked around the room at the faces of the men, some were Pharisees, men that she had known, other men she had seen in passing. But there he was, the man she had come to see, the man she had loved from a distance for … only a little while now. She loved him as these few that were around him had loved him. He looked at her, the word escaped her mouth in a whisper “Emmanuel”.



She walked silently around the low table to where he was reclining, as she passed various members she heard mutterings of disgrace on their breath. A woman who was breath takingly beautiful sat towards the corner of the table, she watched her silently, knowingly, she heard one of the men lean towards her and whisper. “Mary..” he had said.



She looked down at his feet, “my lords feet” she thought, and saw they were still dusty. Why hadn’t they been washed when he’d walked in? she knelt down at his feet and realised she had no water, no towel, what would she use?



She had failed him, like her whole life had been a failure, and now she knelt before the king with nothing to offer but the gaudy perfume of a hetaerae. She began to weep and her tears fell on his feet, she knelt and kissed where her tears had fallen, as her tears streamed over her masters feet she dried them with her hair, her long curling raven locks that had been a part of her work for so long, the hair that she had hidden under when she gave herself over, now she pressed it to her lords feet as her tears washed away the dust.



He spoke with one of the other men, his tone was scornful, in a moment of insecurity she looked to him, was he angry with her? But the look in his eyes confirmed that he was not. Taking the vial she went sprinkle a few drops over his feet, remembering that she still had to work later that night and would need the perfume, but she stopped and looked at him, he was gazing at her, his eyes talking to her heart, she looked at him, and then looked at the alabaster vial, the symbol of her life, the beacon of her profession. “never again, you never need to again” a small voice said within her.



As if her hands operated on their own they smashed the alabaster vial on the ground and poured the perfume over his feet. It was broken, smashed in two, it would never hold perfume again. Without a word she stood and swept from the room, through the court yard, out into the street.



Throwing the remains of the alabaster jar onto the ground she gulped in the hot night air, doubling over she wept, she didn’t know what had happened, but something had broken inside of her, broken open like the vial of perfume. She stood up and began to make her way down the street, to where she didn’t know, she couldn’t go back to her house, where a man was most likely waiting.



She sobbed, as she slowly walked down the street. She heard the sound of foot steps behind her and she turned to see who was approaching. The beautiful woman who had been in the dining room hurried towards her and grabbed her hand,



“Sister, my name is Mary”

“Mistress, do not touch me”

“why sister? I have things to tell you”

“please do not touch me, and do not call me sister, for I am not worthy of the title, I am hetaerae, and a well known one here in Bethany, now please for your names sake leave me be….”



The woman stopped as she glanced down at Mary’s out stretched hand, both women wept, for in Mary’s hand was the small shattered remnants of her own alabaster jar.



“You see sister? His love broke mine as well”