How I Met St. Martha

...Martha served...

John 12:2

I don't believe in coincidence.  When something comes into our life at a fortuitous time, it is because God has willed it.  He knows what we need when sometimes we don't, and through these seemingly happy accidents, he speaks to us.  This is how one of my prayers, one I say quite often, was answered.

A couple of weeks ago, I was wandering aimlessly around my house.  I knew that I had to clean it before my mom came into town to visit, but I didn't know where to start.  The kitchen was a horrifying foe:  Stacks of dishes jutted  from the sink like the craggy, snow-capped peaks of a mighty mountain; garbage peeked over the edge of the pail, its lid held up by two tightly-wrapped diapers atop the heap like unblinking eyes.  Overwhelmed, I turned my attention to the dining room where a daunting pile of papers, old cards and magazines shared space atop the table with rolls of screen intended for the porch.  The wood floor bore the artistic endeavors of my toddler daughter, jagged waxy lines of dull crayon darting between dried drops of juice that spilled as she carried her tilted cup.  The living room was an overwhelming collage of toys strewn about the floor, discarded snacks crunched into the rug, and piles of laundry yet to be folded taking up residence on the couch.

"Dear Lord," I'd say as I'd shift my sleeping infant from one shoulder to the next, aware that putting him down would invoke his tired, screaming wrath, "help me be a better housewife.  Help me figure out how to juggle all my duties."  With perfect timing, my daughter would run up to me and shake her sippy cup, sending drops of sticky juice flying through the air.  "Please."

It's a silly prayer, really.   However, I like to think that many women in my situation suffer from the same lack of motivation, that mothers everywhere would choose to neglect their housework before they would neglect their children.  A pile of dirty laundry in the basement, after all, won't cry out in despair at your lack of attention like a toddler whose nap was cut short by a noisy motorcycle outside.

I did what little I could do before collapsing into a heap on the floor and reading the same book to my daughter for the third time that day.  My mom showed up to my messy home, yet again.  The look of disgust on her face is as hard for me to ignore as it is for her to hide, but I understand her point of view.  An unkempt home is embarrassing for both the owner and the visitor, no doubt.

I told her quite simply, "Get me out of here."

We packed the kids up and headed to the mall.  We went to the food court, to some various stores.  Before we left, we ended up at Ann Taylor, a store of which I'm not particularly fond.  My mother, on the other hand, thinks she likes it but every time we go in, she never finds anything she likes.  I, however, did find something that day on our way out.

"What are you doing?  Just leave it," my mom said impatiently as I stooped to the floor to pick up a tiny charm that lay face down.  It was the size of a fingernail with a small cross stamped into the cheap metal.  I turned it over and saw a tiny but colorful image of a saint.  I put it in my pocket with the excuse that I like to make jewelry from things I find.  It's not entirely untrue, after all.

I forgot about that little saint until that night when I pulled her from my pocket and put her on a window sill.  I had no idea who she was, standing atop a dragon and holding before her a torch.  I'll find out later, I told myself.  It kept escaping me, however, and I never did search for her.

Until two days ago.

I was reading "My Life With the Saints," by James Martin, SJ, and was feeling inspired by his journey with those amazing Christians we call the saints whose lives reflect the spiritual ideal of humanity (read a beautiful description of sanctity here).  He didn't reach for them; they reached for him.  They called him from such mundane things as magazines and movie posters, and when he responded to their call, they inspired him and prayed for him and motivated him.

It dawned on me that I was in the midst of one of those very mundane moments myself, one of those happy accidents that are not accidents after all.  I put the book down and found that little charm, and I did a quick search on Google to find this saint with the torch.

St. Martha, Patron Saint of Housewives.  My heart skipped a beat.  I was ready to listen.

We read in scripture how Martha opens her home to Jesus and serves him readily, but we also learn how this woman of deep faith becomes too distracted and worried with what she feels is her solemn duty to provide excellent hospitality.  Jesus gently tells her that only one thing is truly needed, and that is to listen to him.  When Lazarus, her brother, dies, we see the depth of her belief as she leaves her place of mourning and approaches Jesus for his assistance, laying before him her straight-forward and unblemished faith.  Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead.

We also see the beauty and simplicity of her character.  Her sister, Mary, causes quite a stir when she anoints Jesus with precious oil and washes his feet with her hair; her brother shockingly wakes from his grave.  Martha doesn't find herself bathed in the spotlight, however.  Martha simply serves.

It is easy in this age of constant distraction to relate to Martha - often times, we find ourselves so mired in mundane duties that we neglect the one important task of sitting at the feet of Jesus.  Martha found that balance, and she can help us find similar balance in our days.

This is how God wanted to motivate me.  He wanted St. Martha and I to meet, and all it took was stopping for two seconds to pick up a shiny little object on the floor of a store I usually never go in.  There are no coincidences, only conversations.

I prayed for St. Martha's intercession last night, to help me organize my thoughts and start to serve in my own household better.  Wouldn't you know that today I had a burst of motivation and somehow managed to figure out ways to accomplish all my own mundane tasks without feeling like I was neglecting the needs of my children.  Two happy children, several loads of laundry, and dinner ready for my husband when he came home from work.

St. Martha's faith truly can inspire miracles.

Us, and Them.

And [Peter] said to them, "You yourselves know how unlawful

it is for a man who is a Jew to associate with a foreigner or visit him;

and yet God has shown me that I should not call any man

unholy or unclean."

Acts 10:28

It was with a heavy heart that I picked my daughter up and carried her back home as she stared up an empty driveway, her little hand slowly waving a lonely good-bye to the children she had been chasing, two young boys who had long disappeared into a backyard.  

Evelyn was so excited when she recognized them from a previous encounter a few days before when she was on a walk with her dad.  They were playing in the front yard of a house situated comfortably at the end of two streets; the solitary house on its own tiny dead end, facing a T-intersection with the street on which we live.  From the sidewalk in front of our house, facing east, their house is right there staring back at us.  The boys had been playing with paper airplanes, and asked if she was allowed to play with them, too.  They ran around the modest lawn, laughing as the wind caught the homemade toys and tossed them haphazardly about.  She is a social creature, and was comfortable in her natural element - playing with other children and reveling in the connection she could share with people closer to her age of seventeen months.

She stood in front of our house this evening and watched them as they left their porch and slowly walked along their yard.  When she saw them, she started waving a frantic "Hello," and her little legs began pumping furiously, taking quick but tiny steps.  They watched nervously as we approached, then turned to walk up a driveway.  The older of the boys tossed a few words over his shoulder as they disappeared.

"My mom said we can't."

Of course, Evelyn tried to follow them up the driveway, steeling herself against my hand on her shoulder as I held her back.  She didn't understand what they had said, of course.  But I did.

They are Orthodox Jews, and we are not.  

I felt a stab in my heart as I witnessed innocent children become victims of adult intolerance, a concept that we are clearly not born with but that must be taught and learned.  Evie pulled against my hand, broke free and ran up the driveway after the boys who just a day before had no preconceived notions of my daughter, who laughed and played and desired her friendship until the harsh hand of jaded years stamped into their tender minds the idea of "Us" and "Them."  As I picked her up and carried her away, I felt only mild relief knowing that she was too young to learn that lesson today.

We are created wonderfully and fearfully in the image of our Father, and yet we each are unique individuals much more complex than the cultural groups in which we find ourselves.  We are not a number, but a name; not a skin color, but all one human flesh.  We are not the personification of the ideologies we espouse or the religions in which we put our faith, but are intellectual beings capable of agreeance or dissent, capable of our own thoughts.

Our dignity and humanity is stripped from us when we are sorted into "Us" and "Them."  It is the path of least resistance, the easiest to tread:  To simply accept that it might be in our nature to classify each other instead of recognizing that it is and fighting it.  It is safer to look upon someone as a stereotype than to open ourselves to the possibility that each individual is deeper than our shallow understanding can fathom.

I can only imagine what it was the boys' mother told them about my daughter, how she justified an ingrained intolerance to her children and to herself.  I also imagine what the world would be like if we all had to explain to a child why we do not tolerate them.  The simplicity involved in an explanation like that might make us realize how ridiculous it is to completely disregard someone because of petty differences.

As I walked back up the path to our front door, I heard my neighbor's voice through the hedges that separate our properties.  "I think I hear Evie over there!" she said to her son, who was out front playing T-ball.  I set Evelyn down on the sidewalk and gave her a little push, and she ran excitedly to their yard where she was welcomed.  Eventually, both of our families were convened in the front yard, eight in all, talking, laughing and watching kids being kids.