The Merry Go-Round: having a Martha moment

Once my name was Martha.

Let me try to explain. It all goes back to 2001 when I was first given a new name: Mother. I candidly admit that I had a hard time adjusting to this name-change. It carried with it unspeakable exhaustion—physical, yes, I had expected that, but mental, too. Every moment was filled with regret—that time was slipping away and I could not pin it down. Did I take enough baby photos? Was I gathering memories, capturing moments, living to the fullest despite the bone weary ache? Did I rattle enough brightly colored toys, show enough flashcards, read aloud The Wall Street Journal, and spoon up organic, made-from-scratch baby food? (Answer: Yes.)

Yet, the feeling that time was fleeting and short-lived was interlaced with a sense of neverendingness. Days and nights and days and nights blurred as one. The baby grew and grew but those swift moments of a sweet pink-cheeked grin, a juicy gurgle, an unsteady toddle, all occurred in an overarching timewarp that I couldn’t escape, that prevented me from a vital arms-length view of life. All I knew is that I was laying down my life for my child, and wasn't sacrifice good?

So the milestones occurred and were documented and I was the official notary and witness, carefully signing my name: Mother. But somehow I did not feel the fullness of appreciation; the fullness of joy.

I think back to this era as my Martha moment.

As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said.

Well, I once thought, we can’t all lounge around at Jesus’s feet all the time---hey, some of us have to do the heavy lifting around here. The laundry, the cooking, the shopping, the picking up of incredibly random items off the floor at the end of each day. I mean, these things add up if Martha isn’t doing her part. We start eating frozen dinners; we misplace our favorite sweater; our Polly Pocket’s shoes are nowhere to be found without Martha. A bit of resentment starts to seep in. A lot of weariness. And then one day, the tasks and chores and to-do lists overshadow the very people standing right in front of you. Sitting on your hip. Clamoring for your attention. Calling your name but you no longer hear: "Mother."

I lost sight of the people and became absorbed in the sacrifice.

Becoming a first-time mother, I became a Martha. I left the feet of Jesus and went into the kitchen, never to put down the clean shiny pots and towels nicely folded and shimmering countertops and freshly pressed, hand-sewn, personally monogrammed jumpers long enough to circle back and sit down and spend time with the loved ones and the Loved One.

Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one.” Luke 10:40-41

I thought I was doing the right thing by serving, by being a willing worker on behalf of the kids. This was a dangerous misperception, for I lost my vision for nurturing and loving my children into their God-given calling the minute I stood up and walked away to do what I thought was more important. Worry and upset certainly followed. But in God’s grace I had the chance to leave Martha behind, to have the time redeemed, to come back to the holy seat and cross my legs in a golden patch of warmth, feel a cool breeze and the soft grass beneath and look upon the Master once more.

Some things will not get checked off the list as a result. You may stop for a visit and see a bouncy ball, half-finished lego car, single wooden Scrabble piece, a green pony tail holder, and a random scooby-doo action figure piled on the entry-hall table. There might be a teeming stack of books and papers next to a kitchen telephone that blinks with unheard messages. I may, just may, have one more Christmas box to put up even though it’s almost March. But my children have been well-loved today, in spite of tonight's frozen pizza, and we have enjoyed moments of laughter over silly dancing, a new joke, my son’s ability to use his freshly-minted cast as a handy baseball bat. We have talked about heaven, shared a favorite verse, prayed with each other.

There has been a connection; they have called me Mother, and I have responded with joy to my name.