She did what she could

Lately I've been thinking a lot about a familiar Bible story from Mark chapter 14. It's an "old one" . . . I've known it since I was a child in Sunday School in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, where I used to wonder why grown-ups still read the Bible, since I was only 7 and I pretty much knew all the stories that were in there already. Preacher's child that I was, I wondered what there could possibly be left to learn after 8 or 10 years of Sunday School and a dozen years of Hurlburt's Bible Stories every night at bedtime.

Now past the midpoint of my life I wonder at how little I have learned of what the Scriptures contain, and if I will ever do more than scratch the surface. I understand a little better what the Apostle meant when He described the Word of God as living and active - that the words of God, like His mercies, are new every morning. So I often find myself shaking my head over some familiar verse or account, wondering, "Why did I never see that before?" I catch my breath when I glimpse some lovely gem that has apparently been there all the time, but I never really saw it. This passage in the gospel of Mark struck me that way when I read it several weeks ago.

Speaking of Jesus, Mark writes:
While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head.

Some of those present were saying indignantly to one another, "Why this waste of perfume? It could have been sold for more than a year's wages and the money given to the poor." And they rebuked her harshly.
"Leave her alone," said Jesus. "Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me.

And then Jesus says the words which have been haunting me for several weeks:
She did what she could.

An introvert by nature, blessed or cursed with an interior monologue that just won't quit, I have spent my life second guessing my choices, comparing my life to any and everyone else's and always coming up short. I have wished and wished I could just lighten up, that I could be happy with who I am and where I am and what I've been given, but I find at the end of the day it is never enough. I have spent a lifetime shivering in the winter of my discontent. . . all the while feeling guilty because I have been snowed under with blessings that I struggle to enjoy. I am my own worst critic and my own harshest judge. So that is why Jesus' words to the woman whom every one condemned sounded so sweet in my ears: Leave her alone. She did what she could.

No, I have not held down a fascinating job while simultaneously raising lovely, talented, smart kids like some women I know; being a full-time Mom was about all I could handle. I have never served on the rescue squad or coached a team, or run the women's program at the local mission or even led a successful, well-attended Bible study. I've felt happy many days to just get dinner on the table and a load of laundry half-done. I have never run a marathon or been the state power-lifting champion like some real women I actually know; I feel like I've won a great victory if I manage to get in a walk most days of the week. I'm not a musician, not a philosopher, not an author, not a beauty, but Jesus appeared to be happy with the woman who "did what she could." She didn't resue the poor or realize huge profits on her investment; she did what she could. She didn't do what Jesus' other disciples would have done with the resources she had, but Jesus told them to leave her alone - she did what she could.

What sweet praise for someone who was trying so hard to do good, but was criticized all round for her choices. For a woman who may have had limited resources, and perhaps limited imagination, who could not see beyond the moment, but really loved Jesus. For the woman who may have felt she had only one thing in her hands, only one thing to offer. For the woman who did not fund the homeless shelter or volunteer in the hospital, or do anything that seemed to have lasting significance. Jesus recognized that she did what she could, and it was enough for Him.