Broken Bottles of Perfume

This is the scent of Love-

"There came a woman having an alabaster box of ointment of spikenard very precious; and she broke the box, and poured it on His [Jesus'] head." 

-Mark 14:3b

   Chanel No. 5 was my first perfume. L and B gave me the perfume at my high school graduation. That perfume adorned me during many firsts: my first year at college, my first time wearing heels, and my first date. But I will always associate the smell of Chanel with the them.

   
   When L and B entered my life, our family was going through trials that threatened to break us apart. I was still too young to understand the whys, but I understood the tension. And I remember the tears of my parents.

   Papa and Mama (that is what L and B insisted we call them) saw our family struggling, and they slipped their arms around us. They came without fanfare or pomp. I hardly remember the first time I met them. They simply melted into the family. L helped Dad with the farm work; B helped Mom can fruit during the fall. They were at every birthday, anniversary, wedding, and death, helping and giving to us.

   L and B were never rich for as long as I knew them, but they used to be rich. B had been the daughter of a wealthy French doctor and had received an inheritance from him when she was married. When they became Christians, they gave up their wealth and committed themselves to helping others.  The Chanel perfume had been a remnant of B’s past.

   When my younger brother and I went to college, L and B faithfully sent us a 50 dollar check every month. They were the reason that I could go on coffee dates with my friends every week. Sometimes I sent a thank you card, but sometimes I didn’t. I wish I could go back and fix that lack of love on my part. All during our four years of college, they never missed a month. They would have flown from Washington to Florida for our graduation, but by the time we graduated B was too sick to make the trip.

   Before I left for graduate school in the fall of 2012, I decided to take L and B on a dinner date. I felt like B was slipping away, and I wanted to give them a special dinner. I set up the time with L, called the restaurant, and reserved a table. I told Papa and Mama to meet me at 6 p.m.

   When I arrived at the restaurant, fifteen minutes early and holding a bouquet of flowers for B, I found them already seated at the table. B had bought a swan vase holding a single rose from a florist and placed it beside my water glass. My small bouquet of flowers from Wal-mart (I had remembered to buy flowers on the way into town, and Wal-mart was the only store open at that time) seemed tasteless and ugly. At the end of the meal, L paid the bill before I could.

   I hugged them goodbye in the parking lot and watched them drive away in their shabby white Subaru. I climbed into my truck, pulled my seatbelt down and over, put my hands on the top of the steering wheel, and sank my forehead onto my hands. I cried like a child—without restraint.

   Because of L and B, I had seen a startlingly clear picture of Jesus’ love. They had given to me without expecting or wanting anything in return because they loved me. I could never repay them. Why did they love me? But that question didn’t matter. They were only concerned that I was loved. And that is the reason that I cried into the steering wheel, overwhelmed by a love I could never return.

   Someday, I will buy my little girl a bottle of Chanel No. 5 for her graduation and will tell her about Papa and Mama. I’ll tell her that like the woman who poured her perfume on the feet of Jesus, L and B poured their lives into me. But perhaps they gave a more excellent sacrifice than the woman in Mark, because their lives were a perfume personified and poured out for the Master’s glory. They were most like Christ.