The Box of Myrrh

A story by

Patrick W. Moore

             It was there, exactly as she had left it over thirty years ago. The carved alabaster box lay there in amongst the clothes and linens; things that she had managed to save over the years. It was a chest made of Cedar wood, and it contained her most cherished mementos. In the corner near the bottom of the chest was a box made of alabaster. She reached out her hand; her slender hand that was, finally, showing the signs of her life of work, and the wrinkles of age. She reached her hand into the chest, and picked up the alabaster box that she had saved all these years.

            She reverently carried the box to a small table; a table that had been made by her husband, and set the box down on it. The lid of the box fit very tightly and it took a bit more effort than she expected to pry it off. The alabaster was cold; cold as death in her hands. The box had deeply carved designs cut into its sides and top. Exotic, Persian designs swirled and seemed to have a movement of their own all around the box. Those many years ago, some craftsman in a far off land, an artisan who really knew and understood the white stone, and could envision the box waiting inside, had spent, who knows how many hours on its creation. It had that quality; the quality of having been created with love and effort that would bring value…a value beyond the price it would bring in a marketplace. It was a box fit for a king.

            Miriam (for that was the name of the woman with the sweet face, and work worn hands) who had kept the box for so many years, felt the seal of the tight fitting lid start to yield its grip to the pressure from her hands. The seal that had done its job for all those years now let go, and came away from the box.

            Miriam had worried that over the years, the contents of the box might have lost its power, but as soon as the lid came away and the seal had been broken, it was clear in an instant that her worrying had been for nothing.