While Jesus was in Bethany in the home of Simon the Leper,a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, which she poured on his head as he was reclining at the table. When the disciples saw this, they were indignant. “Why this waste?” they asked.“This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor.” Aware of this, Jesus said to them, “Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me.The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me.When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial.Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.”
Father- part two, by Carlos Andrés Gómez
II. When her heart rate dropped by half in less than a minute, the population of our cramped hospital room tripling in a handful of seconds, I grasped for anything that would keep me upright. At first, the wall: cool and steady, demanding my body ascend beyond what seemed possible. Then, nothing, no one. I stood in the waiting room to the O.R. waiting to be called in, to find out if my child had survived. I spent each second trying to pull tiny shoe-coverings over my too-large feet. I confessed every wrong of my life to an empty, over-lit room of steel and sterile instruments that all reflected back distorted versions of myself. I fumbled for any prayer I could remember, hoping that I had all along been mistaken about the hollow blackness of the infinite sky. I never wanted so badly to have been wrong about anything in my life-- and then a disembodied voice called out, seemingly only to me-- a tiny growl at first that blossomed into a wail dwarfing any thought my mind could possibly hold, any faith I’d ever been so foolish to claim.
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