The Anointed Strands

 

The Anointed Strands

The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the dusty earth. A warm breeze moved through the crowd, rustling robes, carrying whispers of hope, of disbelief, of awe. They had gathered here for her. They had heard the stories—the blind who could see, the broken who could walk, the lost who had been found.

And now, they watched.

She stood among them, barefoot, the hem of her garment brushing the dry ground, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders. But it was her hair that caught the light. Long, flowing, untouched by blade or vanity, it fell past her waist in a river of sun-kissed silk. It moved as she moved, heavy yet unburdened, a crown of its own making.

A woman approached, trembling, eyes cast downward. She knelt, hands shaking, and reached out—not for her hands, not for her robes, but for the strands of hair that had fallen over her shoulder, swaying with the wind.

The moment her fingers brushed against them, she gasped. A warmth, a radiance, something beyond flesh and bone surged through her body, filling every hollow space with light. Her pain—gone. Her sorrow—lifted.

She looked up, eyes wide, lips parting in wonder.

The woman before her smiled, the kind of smile that carried the weight of both sorrow and love.

“Your faith has made you whole.”

The crowd murmured, shifting, unsure of what they had just seen. But some of them knew. Some of them felt it.

She turned, her hair moving with her like a veil of anointing oil, heavy with something divine. It had never been cut, never been bound, never been owned by anything but the wind and the will of the heavens. It was a symbol, a gift, a covenant.

She walked forward, disappearing into the crowd, her hair the last thing they saw.

And those who touched even a single strand knew—

They had been in the presence of something holy.