Thou shalt not covet...

I remember one of my grandfather's favorite jokes upon spying a car or some such thing that he especially admired; he'd say to my grandmother, "I wish I had that one and he had a better one." The joke being that by wishing better for the one you'd rob, you'd found a loophole in the non-covet stipulation imposed on the sanctified soul. Now I am nearly old enough to be a grandparent, and I too can joke about many things that at other points and times made me covet. For instance, I don't really envy someone who drives past me in a Jaguar, or swings a Coach purse, jaunty at the mall, etc. Yes, I figure that over the years I've come a long way in the "thou shalt not covet" department.

But today it strikes me, I still have a long way to go in the thou shalt not covet department. Oh, I don't covet those material objects anymore, true enough. I'm no longer flush with shame when someone sees me driving a junky old van or walking along with holes in my shoes. I don't even wonder anymore whether that lovely, polished lady over there is in some deep-hued, matching satin undergarments, while I'm in a sagging bra and a pair of my husband's cast-off, decades-old bikini underwear. (OK, that's telling way too much.) No. My coveting is not of that nature at all. Hence my failure to recognize it.

So what would I lay out for review in a confessional for those addicted to my sort of coveting? A story that springs from a parable, one that goes something like this:

Once there was to be a wedding amongst a people whose traditions were very different from ours; but in another sense, not that different.

The pre-nuptial nights were spent by those maids slated to be attendants gathered in a house, waiting, listening. Would the bridegroom come soon? If he came, they would go with him to the wedding, and their lamps would be lit and their singing would be divine.

One maiden sat, leaning against the wall. The room had become invisible to her, so long had she spent here, waiting. Too bright, too stark, too awkward--as people gathered for no other reason than to wait will often be awkward. So to pass the time, she closed her eyes and imagined the journey as if it were finally beginning. She imagined moving out into the darkness, the damp smells of cool night, and the quiet insects, and the cooing birds. She imagined the circle of light from her lamp as it floated before her, blanching everything but the path beneath her feet and the nearest singing partners. And then she imagined that singing, the soft soul songs that would make the long journey pass in but one heartbeat of time.

Her imaginings stopped there. She dared not think of the wedding itself, or her impatience would get the best of her. She opened her eyes and turned to her lamp, trimming its wick, checking its oil. Others near her slept or bickered. She couldn't see how they lost their hearts' focus on this night of all nights. She reminded them to keep an eye on their lamps; and often--upon realizing their lack of attention to the condition of their lamps--they would ask for a share of her oil. She knew and they knew, that she was a master of frugality. If anyone could make a little oil go a long way, it was her. So, out of what her heart considered to be compassion, she shared her oil. But eventually, even her oil looked skimpy. She wondered at the ones who still seemed to be at peace with plenty of oil. Why didn't these needy, audacious, desperate ones ever go to pester those peaceful ones for oil? But immediately she was ashamed for even having had the thought. She tried to hide, become a part of the mundane wall. She pretended not to notice when they looked prone to approach her. Finally, she said loudly, "I have no more oil to share!" Then they left her alone for a bit. But she saw a young one wilted on the floor, whimpering; and she knelt down beside her, even though she knew she was only inviting the strain to start all over again.

That fateful moment came, when a whispered word urgently spread like wildfire.
He is on his way.

She knew the ending of stories like this one. She knew the rule: you must have enough oil to light the journey, have enough or be left out. She feared she had failed, missed some divine appointment while doling our her pitiful supply, oh foolish pride! Did she think she was God, able to serve as supply for such a great need? For this alone, she deserved to be left in the empty house, watching through the doorway the disappearing backs of the joyful wedding party.

Then, she did the only thing she knew to do. She began to pray. And a small voice said, "Remember the widow's oil."

The Widow at Zarephath
8 Then the Lord said to Elijah, 9 "Go and live in the village of Zarephath, near the city of Sidon. There is a widow there who will feed you. I have given her my instructions."
10 So he went to Zarephath. As he arrived at the gates of the village, he saw a widow gathering sticks, and he asked her, "Would you please bring me a cup of water?" 11 As she was going to get it, he called to her, "Bring me a bite of bread, too."
12 But she said, "I swear by the Lord your God that I don't have a single piece of bread in the house. And I have only a handful of flour left in the jar and a little cooking oil in the bottom of the jug. I was just gathering a few sticks to cook this last meal, and then my son and I will die."
13 But Elijah said to her, "Don't be afraid! Go ahead and cook that `last meal,' but bake me a little loaf of bread first. Afterward there will still be enough food for you and your son. 14 For this is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: There will always be plenty of flour and oil left in your containers until the time when the Lord sends rain and the crops grow again!"
15 So she did as Elijah said, and she and Elijah and her son continued to eat from her supply of flour and oil for many days. 16 For no matter how much they used, there was always enough left in the containers, just as the Lord had promised through Elijah.