(See Installment One here, and Installment Two here)
In exasperation, she blurted out what she assumed to be obvious— “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The plea in her voice was unmistakable—surely he would help her. Surely would jump to his feet and make things right. Surely he would appreciate all that she had done. But he didn’t move. She stared at him bug-eyed, breathless from her outburst, and tried desperately to read the look in his eyes.
“Martha,” he began. “Oh, Martha…”
The tone in his voice stung with its sweetness. She had not expected sweetness—she had expected anger. Indignation. She had expected rebuke. But the look in his eyes—what the look revealed caused her to draw in a startled breath and grasp the doorframe behind her. It was not anger. It was not indignation. It was pity. Pity. She was thoroughly confused before he even began to address her.
“My dear Martha,” he answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed.” Things began moving in slow motion, his words coming in slow motion, her thoughts forming in slow motion. Only one thing is needed? “Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” Mary had chosen what is better? What?!?!
It was inexplicable to Martha how the blood could drain from one’s head at the same time one’s face flushed with heat as if on fire. In front of our guests… oh, Lord… how could he? He paused for a moment, as if waiting for her response. Martha remained frozen, mortified, the red of her neck deepening to near purple. She looked down, then back up again, as if hoping they had all disappeared. Her sister regarded her, puzzled and hurt, and she could not even look at the others for fear of their familiar scorn. “I’m sorry, my Lord. Please excuse the interruption.” She backed away through the steadying doorframe, looking up just long enough to catch the sadness of his expression as he lingered on her face before turning back to the others.
She turned and fled to the kitchen—once her confining cell, now her refuge. Tears, a betrayal of her pride, came like a torrent and she smeared away their presence in Pride’s defense. Lazarus came and stood, tentatively, in the doorway, a worried look out of place on his young, peaceful face. I do not need your help—be gone, she hurled, wounding him in her self-pitying fit.
Storm clouds gathered in her mind—huge, threatening skies bore down upon her countenance. You are worried and upset about many things. Flash! Kaboom! Mary has chosen what is better. Flash! Mary has chosen what is better. Kaboom! Mary has chosen what is better. KABOOM!!! She was drenched in the downpour of emotion, tossed about by high winds of confusion threatening to uproot her.
She had expected a rebuke, and it had come—but to rebuke HER? What had she done wrong? How was that fair? She was only doing what needed to be done! How were they to eat, hungry as they certainly were from their travels, if she chose to saddle up next to Mary and listen to him go on and on about things that made no sense to her? The least will be the greatest? Has she not been the least? She deserved some help! She deserved some appreciation! Some acknowledgement! And he REBUKED her!?!?
She began heaving dishes out from the oven, slamming them down on the table—hot and steaming, she and they alike. Only one thing is needed…you are upset and worried about many things…only one thing is needed. What on earth did he mean by that? Of course she was worried! She had a household to maintain and no family to help when times were tight and the land unyeilding. She had property to protect, with neighbors encroaching upon her boarders daily, pressing in, taking more that did not belong to them, and she, helpless to do anything about it. And there were certainly no suitors—not after her parents died and her uncles absconded her dowry, Mary’s as well. There was nothing. No one. No one else was going to take care of them. Of course she was worried!
And, truth be told, she was angry! Angry over broken engagements, deathbed swindling, pitying townsfolk with their superior, married attitudes. Angry for the burden she bore as a child of fifteen, some twenty or more years ago—still bears, daily, to this very day, with not an ounce of help or appreciation from anyone. Angry with the Lord for taking her parents. Angry with her uncles for taking their inheritance. Angry with her betrothed for taking her heart and reputation. Yes, she was worried and upset about a great many things. A great many, indeed! Who could blame her?
How could he blame her?
(To be continued)
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, April 10, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
martha and mary, installment two
…she was shrewd in the marketplace, skilled with the ledgers, gifted in the kitchen, and favored by the land. But in the end this earned her not respect but disdain from both men and women alike. Now that the Teacher was here, however—now that would all change.
But not if I don’t get some help in here, Martha fumed, her cheeks flushed from both irritation and exertion. She did not begrudge her siblings the responsibility she bore for them—indeed, she bore it with a certain air of martyred pride. She knew she was competent—no, more than competent—she did more than three women and she handled the burden placed upon her as if it had been made to fit. But a burden made-to-fit was a burden nonetheless, and there were days when the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm her, which vexed her to no end. And when Mary pulled stunts like this, well, the burden became a chaffing aggravation and Martha rubbed with bitterness and resentment.
Looking down at her flour-covered garments, Martha indulged the self-pity rising up within her. Surely the teacher must notice how she leaves the work to me. Surely he will say something. It is not right for her to sit there doing nothing while I slave away in here! Surely he will rebuke her. The thought buoyed Martha’s spirits for a moment, but as time went on it became clear no such rebuke was coming, and her anger began to boil over, making a further mess of the kitchen. He didn’t seem to care, either! No one seemed to care that she was taking care of everything while everyone else lounged at his feet, listening to his senseless stories that mystified her and caused her to shake her graying head with confusion.
What good were stories? What good did they do them? Did they pay their taxes? Did they put food on the table? No! They merely stirred up dreams and visions in the hearts of her siblings, rendering them more useless than before, increasing Martha’s burden and frustration. Stories, indeed! She had a family to provide for—she had no time for such foolishness. After all, if she didn’t take care of matters, who would? The town had not offered any help—sure, they pitched in for a few months after her parents’ deaths, a few of them for even a year or more—but where were they now? Even the cousins had disappeared, only coming around when they needed something, as if there was anything to spare. No, there was no time for sitting at the Master’s feet… not when there was work to be done. And for Martha, there was always work to be done.
Ouch! Martha looked down at her finger, blood mingling with the juice of the vegetables she’d been slicing. Her eyes stung with tears that she wiped away as quickly as they came. That’s it! She slammed the knife down on the table, gathering up her skirts and dusting off what flour had not sunk into the cloth of her garment. Hair askew and face aglow with anger, Martha marched into the room where the Teacher sat, Mary at his feet, just as she had predicted. He looked up at her with surprise as she stood there, breathlessly, waiting for him to speak, to offer help, to apologize for the thoughtlessness of her sister. He cocked his head to the side, questioning her with his eyes, not certain what she wanted from him.
In exasperation, she blurted out what she assumed to be obvious— “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The plea in her voice was unmistakable—surely he would help her. Surely would jump to his feet and make things right. Surely he would appreciate all that she had done. But he didn’t move. She stared at him bug-eyed, breathless from her outburst, and tried desperately to read the look in his eyes.
“Martha,” he began. “Oh, Martha…”
(to be continued)
But not if I don’t get some help in here, Martha fumed, her cheeks flushed from both irritation and exertion. She did not begrudge her siblings the responsibility she bore for them—indeed, she bore it with a certain air of martyred pride. She knew she was competent—no, more than competent—she did more than three women and she handled the burden placed upon her as if it had been made to fit. But a burden made-to-fit was a burden nonetheless, and there were days when the weight of it all threatened to overwhelm her, which vexed her to no end. And when Mary pulled stunts like this, well, the burden became a chaffing aggravation and Martha rubbed with bitterness and resentment.
Looking down at her flour-covered garments, Martha indulged the self-pity rising up within her. Surely the teacher must notice how she leaves the work to me. Surely he will say something. It is not right for her to sit there doing nothing while I slave away in here! Surely he will rebuke her. The thought buoyed Martha’s spirits for a moment, but as time went on it became clear no such rebuke was coming, and her anger began to boil over, making a further mess of the kitchen. He didn’t seem to care, either! No one seemed to care that she was taking care of everything while everyone else lounged at his feet, listening to his senseless stories that mystified her and caused her to shake her graying head with confusion.
What good were stories? What good did they do them? Did they pay their taxes? Did they put food on the table? No! They merely stirred up dreams and visions in the hearts of her siblings, rendering them more useless than before, increasing Martha’s burden and frustration. Stories, indeed! She had a family to provide for—she had no time for such foolishness. After all, if she didn’t take care of matters, who would? The town had not offered any help—sure, they pitched in for a few months after her parents’ deaths, a few of them for even a year or more—but where were they now? Even the cousins had disappeared, only coming around when they needed something, as if there was anything to spare. No, there was no time for sitting at the Master’s feet… not when there was work to be done. And for Martha, there was always work to be done.
Ouch! Martha looked down at her finger, blood mingling with the juice of the vegetables she’d been slicing. Her eyes stung with tears that she wiped away as quickly as they came. That’s it! She slammed the knife down on the table, gathering up her skirts and dusting off what flour had not sunk into the cloth of her garment. Hair askew and face aglow with anger, Martha marched into the room where the Teacher sat, Mary at his feet, just as she had predicted. He looked up at her with surprise as she stood there, breathlessly, waiting for him to speak, to offer help, to apologize for the thoughtlessness of her sister. He cocked his head to the side, questioning her with his eyes, not certain what she wanted from him.
In exasperation, she blurted out what she assumed to be obvious— “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” The plea in her voice was unmistakable—surely he would help her. Surely would jump to his feet and make things right. Surely he would appreciate all that she had done. But he didn’t move. She stared at him bug-eyed, breathless from her outburst, and tried desperately to read the look in his eyes.
“Martha,” he began. “Oh, Martha…”
(to be continued)
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
martha and mary
Part one of a piece inspired by my women’s group discussion on the same topic…
The clay vessel landed with a hard thud on the wooden surface, leaving yet another dent in the well-worn tabletop. Where is my sister? Martha’s agitation had gotten the best of her over half an hour ago, and the table was not the only inanimate object suffering for it. She slammed another bowl down as she hastily continued her preparations, not entirely caring who heard her banging about. Why doesn’t she come help me? They had guests to look after—important guests—and, as usual, her sister was conspicuously absent from the kitchen.
She wiped the sweat from her permanently-furrowed brow, leaving behind a trail of flour quickly hidden by the loose locks of hair continually escaping from behind her ears. Does she not know who we entertain? Hosting the Rabbi would bring honor to their marriage-less home and redeem them if only a mite in the eyes of their fellow villagers. It was imperative that all be perfect—they must be pleasing to the Master. Of all days, couldn’t she at least help me today?
Martha knew exactly where she’d find her sister, had she even the time to go looking for her. Far more interested in the exchange of ideas than in the management of the home, Mary would undoubtedly be with the men. Never mind that it was inappropriate—that it wasn’t her place to sit among the scholars at the foot of the teacher—no, Mary was not bothered with notions of propriety in the slightest, in fact, she barely even seemed to notice. But Martha noticed. She noticed a great deal.
It is true that Martha resented the lack of help. But even more than that, truth be told, she resented the attention the men paid to her sister, treating Mary as if she were an equal. Did Martha not run their household as efficiently and effectively as any man and woman combined? Did she not provide well for herself and her siblings? She was shrewd in the marketplace, skilled with the ledgers, gifted in the kitchen, and favored by the land. But in the end this earned her not respect but disdain from both men and women alike. Now that the Teacher was here, however—now that would all change…
(to be continued)
The clay vessel landed with a hard thud on the wooden surface, leaving yet another dent in the well-worn tabletop. Where is my sister? Martha’s agitation had gotten the best of her over half an hour ago, and the table was not the only inanimate object suffering for it. She slammed another bowl down as she hastily continued her preparations, not entirely caring who heard her banging about. Why doesn’t she come help me? They had guests to look after—important guests—and, as usual, her sister was conspicuously absent from the kitchen.
She wiped the sweat from her permanently-furrowed brow, leaving behind a trail of flour quickly hidden by the loose locks of hair continually escaping from behind her ears. Does she not know who we entertain? Hosting the Rabbi would bring honor to their marriage-less home and redeem them if only a mite in the eyes of their fellow villagers. It was imperative that all be perfect—they must be pleasing to the Master. Of all days, couldn’t she at least help me today?
Martha knew exactly where she’d find her sister, had she even the time to go looking for her. Far more interested in the exchange of ideas than in the management of the home, Mary would undoubtedly be with the men. Never mind that it was inappropriate—that it wasn’t her place to sit among the scholars at the foot of the teacher—no, Mary was not bothered with notions of propriety in the slightest, in fact, she barely even seemed to notice. But Martha noticed. She noticed a great deal.
It is true that Martha resented the lack of help. But even more than that, truth be told, she resented the attention the men paid to her sister, treating Mary as if she were an equal. Did Martha not run their household as efficiently and effectively as any man and woman combined? Did she not provide well for herself and her siblings? She was shrewd in the marketplace, skilled with the ledgers, gifted in the kitchen, and favored by the land. But in the end this earned her not respect but disdain from both men and women alike. Now that the Teacher was here, however—now that would all change…
(to be continued)
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
cold and wet
This began as a response to our free-writing prompt at group last night, then I added a few paragraphs tonight… just playing around and thought I’d share it. The prompt was, “it weighed on her like…”
It weighed on her like fresh, wet snow—the kind that comes freakishly out of nowhere in the middle of October and completely shocks your system before allowing one more week or so of Indian summer to ease your internal thermometer into winter. She could feel the tension—her boughs bending under the weight, poised to snap back upward in rebellion should gravity (or warmth) finally relieve her of her load. Seasons all out of whack—weather running amuck—life in chaos. Where was the comfortable predictability of winter-spring-summer-fall? But nothing was comfortable now. Nothing was predictable. Like snow in October, life could dump on you whenever it darn well felt like it…
It was the shock of it more than anything—waking up to find herself six inches deep in cold, wet, slushy life. Not what she’d expected. Then again, little was as she’d expected. Life, seasons, weather—was there nothing she could count on anymore?
This was to be the autumn of her life. Golden twilight against crisp apple reds, jack-o-lantern oranges, goldenrod yellows—casting long shadows against the warm honey glow of the day’s final moments. A time of refreshing after a long, hot, laborious summer season, and a time for one last fling in the amber sun and the crisp breeze before winter charged through like the hounds of hell on the tail of Satan himself. She knew. She knew the snow was coming. Life in Ohio had a certain inevitability about it—the snow would be coming. But oh, for one more fair fall weekend…
Big thick flakes dropped one by one onto her branches, each one sticking, clumping together in their not-quite-cold-enough-but-not-quite-warm-enough state, adding their weight to her already bent over frame. If only she’d paid attention to the forecast. But seeing as she’d never trusted the weatherman before, the diagnosis would still have caught her completely off guard.
And what good are snow boots, really, when the prognosis is terminal?
Might as well lob a few snowballs at the sky and let her feet get good and cold and wet…
It weighed on her like fresh, wet snow—the kind that comes freakishly out of nowhere in the middle of October and completely shocks your system before allowing one more week or so of Indian summer to ease your internal thermometer into winter. She could feel the tension—her boughs bending under the weight, poised to snap back upward in rebellion should gravity (or warmth) finally relieve her of her load. Seasons all out of whack—weather running amuck—life in chaos. Where was the comfortable predictability of winter-spring-summer-fall? But nothing was comfortable now. Nothing was predictable. Like snow in October, life could dump on you whenever it darn well felt like it…
It was the shock of it more than anything—waking up to find herself six inches deep in cold, wet, slushy life. Not what she’d expected. Then again, little was as she’d expected. Life, seasons, weather—was there nothing she could count on anymore?
This was to be the autumn of her life. Golden twilight against crisp apple reds, jack-o-lantern oranges, goldenrod yellows—casting long shadows against the warm honey glow of the day’s final moments. A time of refreshing after a long, hot, laborious summer season, and a time for one last fling in the amber sun and the crisp breeze before winter charged through like the hounds of hell on the tail of Satan himself. She knew. She knew the snow was coming. Life in Ohio had a certain inevitability about it—the snow would be coming. But oh, for one more fair fall weekend…
Big thick flakes dropped one by one onto her branches, each one sticking, clumping together in their not-quite-cold-enough-but-not-quite-warm-enough state, adding their weight to her already bent over frame. If only she’d paid attention to the forecast. But seeing as she’d never trusted the weatherman before, the diagnosis would still have caught her completely off guard.
And what good are snow boots, really, when the prognosis is terminal?
Might as well lob a few snowballs at the sky and let her feet get good and cold and wet…
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