I've come to know Julie from her writings on a
yahoo group called Transgendered Christians.  
Later, I met Julie and her spouse when both came
out to Washington DC in June 2006 (as best I recall
the month).  I am simply her friend, and that is all.

I was also born male, and live as female.  I am a
computer scientist by trade.  I paint with words, as
a hobby.  Not much of a gift without Him, I think.

    - why did she break it?  What a waste of box
    and perfume....

Can the past be forgotten?  Should the past be
forgotten?  Why were the Jews instructed to have
days remembering the captivity in Egypt - or were
they instructed to remember God's deliverance?  
Why does Jesus say "She that is forgiven much, the
same loves much"?  Why did Paul say, "...this one
thing I do, forgetting the past and pressing
onward..."?  I have so few answers... and a past I
can't forget.

    - everyone watched her pour out the perfume
    on Jesus...

He calls me "Caryn" or "Tigress" or "medic".  Caryn
means 'pure', for that is how He sees me; Tigress
means that we fight an awful lot and disagree over
many things; medic means that He knows I am
more at home in the mud and jungles of the
battlefields helping the wounded than anywhere

    - the alabaster box was stone at one time... it
    was carved by every brutal stroke of man... it
    is now discarded and forgotten....

I can't forget the men that tried to kill me, and I
"see" the Bowie knife going in and out of the clerk
to this day... i was a guy then... i ran for my life
screaming... i have never screamed since then, and
never will..... that was 1983.....

    - the whole room smells now... of that
    perfume... and everyone is staring at Jesus....

I see men coming to kill me almost every day now...
I kill them in my mind... in grocery stores, at work,
or driving a car....  it's called PTSD... cute.... i can't
watch violent shows on tv, or who knows how
many days i will see replays in my mind....

    - everyone that smells the perfume keeps
    staring at Jesus....

Some nights, i ask Him why He pulled me out of the
bars and my lovers, away from the leather and
underground -- i had such deep love there... i spit
at Him and remind Him about the pastor that
refused to pray with me for my friend dying of
cancer... and He says, "Tigress.... you were beyond
his ability to love..." and his words calm me for a

    - they even have forgotten about the woman
    now, every eye is on Jesus in that room... so I
    can move on...  why do I keep looking for that
    broken box among the feet of the people?.... i
    have to... i have to.... where is the box?....

When transsexualism hit the hyper-masculine
phase, I was brutal,  but accepted by men... when
it twisted into the female phase, i lost my wife as
lover, my roles as husband, my daughter for 10
months, even the friendship with my wife half-died
as if a bush half-buried by the mud of a river

    - i must find the box... there it is ... on the floor
    and forgotten... i pick it up... and i caress every
    stroke of the chisel marks and every chip that
    is missing... i can't stop crying... i can't... i leave
    the room carrying the box next to my breast...
    i have to....

    - He meets me outside... "Caryn"  He says,
    "You did well.  Thank you....."  

Can someone in all good doctrine stand in the gap
for an evil done by other parts of the Body of
Christ?  Can one part of the present Body apologize
for a sin by the another past part of the Body?  I
really don't know.  I really don't.  

    - my eyes are red, "I'll never forgive you for
    what you did to the box.... and you know that,
    don't you?" I say.

    - He replies, "And I'll never forget that you still
    dared...  to pour out the perfume of the Spirit
    upon me... , so that for a moment, they would
    forget you and see me."

    - I stare at Him.  It is not a look of love.

    - "Medic," He says.  "Continue to comfort
    others with what I gave you in your distress,
    and you'll do well.  That is the perfume of the

    - I nod 'yes', and swallow hard.  I know my job
    is simply to pour the perfume.... to ignore for a
    moment the intensity of the pain I have for the
    sake of another... to stumble, to offer a string
    of words, to touch a wound... just one drop of
    perfume, and it is all worth it.... isn't it?...
    please say yes...  because then, i will know that
    you are called 'Medic' like me....

    - But for right now, I still hold the alabaster
    box, with all its scars close to me... you see, we
    are one and the same.  The box and I - we
    know each other.  We know each other far too
    well.  And right now, I can't let her scars be
    forgotten.  I hope He understands....

Most sincerely; Caryn


Added later by Caryn:

A prayer:    Father, for those of us that identify with
the alabaster box, give us the courage to still be
broken for the sake of others, to still share the
Perfume with others, so that all will see Jesus.

Perfume was never meant to be seen, but to draw
attention to the One that wears it.

Let every eye see Jesus; may we be forever
forgotten to the memories of mankind; but may
they never forget that view of Jesus.

Then, every scar will be worth it all.

On the basis of who Jesus was, who He is, and who
will be when He comes, I ask this.  Amen.

(c) Copyright Caryn LeMur 2007
The Collection of Short Works,
Letters, and Poems
The Alabaster Box
All the letter asked, really, were
three questions:  "Who are you?",
"Can the past be forgotten?", and
"Can someone apologize for
someone else's evil actions by
standing in the gap?"

The simple question was "Who are

Oh, but sometimes the simple
questions get the most complex

And so, woven into the obvious
reply is the second, and I believe,
more important answer.


The Alabaster Box

Dear L. and all:

No, I am not faculty at (a  
Christian University), nor have I
ever been there.  Really.

    - why did she break open the
    alabaster box?
In Deepest Sympathy -
Poetry for those that grieve
Building Faith, Hope, & Love -
Stories and Writings
A Cup Of Cold Water -
Letters For The Thirsty
A Pause In The Forest -
Poetry for thoughtful moments