Unto Others
You gave me two hundred dollars
and I spent it all on candles. I guess
I wanted to make sure that, on days
when I am not producing the aroma
of Christ, when I am not at that level
of spiritual influence or holiness, my
house can at least smell like ginger or
lilac, or smokey bourbon vanilla. The
truth is, none of us know exactly what
Jesus smelled like or if the scent of life
is more like grass or birthday cake, so I
bought options, and stacked them in
their intricate, bohemian tins on my
bookshelf so that the next time someone
knocks on the door of our little bungalow
for prayer, to hand out a flier, or to return
my Tupperware, I can light a candle like
Mary smashed open that bottle of perfume,
and may it fill the house with the worthiness
of Jesus crucified, buried, and risen. Maybe
that expects too much from wax and wick,
but if it doesn’t work, I can always kneel
down on the hardwood floor and begin to
wash their feet with my hair.
Cover image by Sixteen Miles Out
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