Between If and Then

Between If and Then

(“A woman came to Jesus with a special sealed jar of very expensive perfume. She poured the perfume on his head while he was at the table.” Matthew 26:7)

Can I be honest?
I’ve reached the end of my vial. The contents were not costly,
(more ordinary than rare), but I’ve emptied them now, and somehow,
feel quite unsatisfied.

How do you feel?

I thought
if
I poured out all I could
then
You would appreciate the effort, though
not up to the standards
of your usual saints.

So here I am now, in the weightlessness between the
if
and
then,
still looking for Your face, still listening for Your song,
still wanting to be pleased with Your pleasure in me.

Do we need this ritual throughout my lifetime? I
believe,
I think,
that Your pleasure arises in simple being and presence.

But my brain (that unwieldy part of my body) sends weeping
over apparent acts unnoticed. And now it upbraids me for
wanting notice at all.

I would pour out more, but I’m dry as the desert in winter,
weary as the old man I’ve become,
and yet have more miles to traverse than treasures stored
heaven or earth.

I’ve failed more than the woman who perfumed your feet,
and failed after faith, after baptism, after profession, after vows
and bows before myriad altars.

I would create more, but the words are these words,
nonsense without incense, assumptions without perfume.

Is it unholy and sacrilege to say; if there is any way,
would You pour from Your vial (the smallest spray of mist)
to let me know this time between times
contains as much grace as the moments I could barrel my way
and unload kegs of devotion, or know Your voice so present that,
between breath and breath,
if and then,
I would still weep for better reasons;
mercy at banquets and love in lepers’ homes where
extravagance is misunderstood.