Martha Matters
Guests must be served. This meal won’t cook itself. The plates won’t lay themselves in a straight line, The water jug refill itself, the pile Of washing up just vanish at a glance. And so to see her sitting at his feet Still-souled, in peace that cannot be displaced However loud you clatter pots and pans Rankles so deeply you can’t hold your tongue. He looks at you and softly says your name. Caught in his gaze, you hesitate at last. The dishcloth in your hand drops to the floor Unnoticed as your tight-clenched fists relax. One thing is needful. Every weary guest Is welcomed by this host into his rest.
This is the second poem I’ve written about Martha. I hadn’t planned to write another on Martha—I’d intended to write one on Mary instead, envisioning that lovely vignette of Christ and the two sisters from the other side, but I got stuck. Reading Rowan Williams on stillness and attention and discussing that with someone unstuck me: I started over, but found myself once again looking over Martha's shoulder, not Mary’s. Perhaps that’s because I know how much of a Martha I am—not in the busy-serving-people way (alas), but in the distraction, the divided focus, the lack of stillness and the forgetting (again and again and again) the only thing that really matters. He matters. And we—busy, anxious, and distracted as we are—matter to him and are welcomed in.