Martha was on the verge of a breakdown this weekend. Poor girl, she is just so very capable. She juggles so many things- she loves juggling , and she was MADE to do this- and yet sometimes the things are just too much. Seemingly without warning, the jobs that were invigorating yesterday turn into a giant, oppressive, world-shaped weight that crushes her chest, flattens her, and sends her to bed early.
Martha, what are you carrying? Why can’t you breathe today?
Why do the words “be still” sound not like a loving invitation from your Father, but like just one more incomplete task on the endless checklist?
“It’s everything,” she says, “literally, all the things.” The children, the families, the church, the world, the bodies and souls nearby and distant, and everyone and everything she’s ever cared about in the universe.
Jesus looks on her with compassion.
Do you see the grace in His eyes, Martha? He made you to be a worker, to make the meals, to be capable. He loves you, Martha, when you are doing those things, and when you are flattened by doing too many of them and fighting His call to be still.
Martha knows she should simply hand the burden over to Jesus. But it’s a giant rock on her chest, she can’t get it off. She cannot breathe well with this thing there, and she is so, so tired.
Jesus looks on her with compassion.
He gives her a nap.
He seeks her out later, as she is still burdened, and sits her down.
“Martha, how many seconds can you sit here with me, without thinking of a way to make something better?”
She thinks, “Ooh, being able to do this would make me relax better and therefore serve better! I’m going to do this and if it helps I’ll tell my friends about it and....” She sees his amused smile and stops, frustrated. “Why can’t I make my mind stop, Lord?”
Jesus looks on her with compassion.
“Dear daughter, remember, you are small.”
He who made all things, he sits with her. And He also sends rain on the evil and the good in the midwest; they listen to it falling genty, sustaining the earth. On the other side of the world, the midday sun He created shines on a lizard He sustains. The seas somewhere roar and rage, and He sustains the sailors, except for those He calls home even at this moment. He upholds mountains, buildings, bridges, cars, bodies and brains, as people drive to work in this city.
And near where they sit, His hand sustains the hearts and lungs and bodies of the very ones in this house, those Martha loves so deeply who breathe softly in their beds just now.
Her hand is not in any of that. His hand is everywhere.
Jesus looks on her with compassion.
“Daughter, you are small.
You are eager to work while it is day, and this is good. But you must also learn to be still, and to remember you are small. See what is true: You are not the upholder of the world, that is my job.”
Jesus looks on her with compassion.
Martha draws near,
“Lord, help me to see.”
