Mary, Mary, Martha

I wonder if Mary and Mary and Martha knew they would be told in stories for centuries after their lives here on earth.  Legendary.

I wonder what Martha would think if she knew we remember her as the distracted one, too busy in her work to see Jesus in her own house.  And what would Mary say if she knew hundreds of thousands of people would come to worship her, asking miracles of and praying to her?  What if Mary of Magdala knew that her scandalous act of crying on Jesus’ feet and wiping it off with her hair would be a remembrance and example of true thankfulness and worship for generations?  Did she feel the pang of a legendary time when she saw Jesus risen from the dead?  If I were in a story like that, who would I be?

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Shrinking down to size in lies at every obstacle?

Frozen in fear and cowardise?

Strangled by stress?

No.

I would hope that I’d be told as the one who was saved from some kind of death, becoming bold and beautiful and brave, fearsome to lies.  True, I may never have to raise a gun, knife, or fist in my life.  I don’t know for sure.  But wars wage first in the things we cannot see, and my muscles aren’t really the ones that count or matter.

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Do I trust God through Jesus who took my shame away?

Do I fear and love Him?

Do I love Him with my whole heart?

That comes out in the most normal of things, every day, and the most supernatural of things where I can’t always see.