Luke 7:38 (New International Version)\
3 8and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.
Tuesday evenings are "open house" at our home and a "cell group," which is a cell of the Body of The Church, meets here for supper and community.
Tonight I worked quietly to prepare the supper after work. As the potatoes and vegetables began to simmer on the stove, they filled the house with the smell of dinner cooking. Tuesdays are the only sure night that I cook supper any more--Paul and I are free spirits when it comes to food--often eating cereal (him) or leftovers (me) during the rest of the week. So on Tuesday it's a treat to smell a good old fashioned home cooked meal cooking.
I looked for some music to play and found one of my old beloved Keith Green Cd's--the one with one of my favourite songs--My Eyes are Dry. Something about the words and Keith's passionate, plaintive voice, gets my heart every time. The song expresses my heart's cry. Yes, Lord, soften my heart with oil and wine!
And as I listen to the words, I think of two men--nearly fifty years apart in age. The older man recently apologized for the emotion that choked his voice and made it tremble as he read something powerful he had written that moved him deeply. "As I get older," he said, with slight embarrassment, "I find it harder to hold in the tears." The younger man has the opposite problem--he wants to feel--to be able to grieve a deep loss--but something is holding in check the grief he longs to feel fully.
Tears are such a gift from God really. Several times I have wept before him--having no idea what I was weeping about. The weeping was like a deep, cleansing and healing wave, flowing over and through me.
We need to have hearts soft and tender towards God. I'm glad that Jesus wasn't offended by having his feet washed with tears and that I know he also wept.
My eyes are dry
My faith is old
My heart is hard
My prayers are cold
And I know how I ought to be
Alive to you and dead to me
But what can be done
For an old heart like mine
Soften it up
With oil and wine
The oil is you,
your spirit of love
Please wash me anew
With the wine of your blood