A Deep River

By Andrea Lingle

Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

Luke 10:38–42

She slumped, arms crossed under her forehead, leaning on the lip of the water vessel. Her tunic clung to her back and her hair stuck to the back of her neck in sweaty tangles. Her back no longer bent easily, and her knees resented the hours she had spent kneading and pounding the evening meal into resplendence.

His words had lashed her. Mary has chosen the better part. She had felt the words on her shoulders, back, and stomach. All the planning and thinking ahead she had done. All of the calculations and measurements. And Mary just sitting there.

She had heard the friends of Jesus talking about the story Jesus had told about the Samaritan who had compassion on a man beaten and robbed. She had felt generous when she had welcomed the teacher and his friends into her home for the evening meal. Their traveling bags had been limp with emptiness. The youngest of the followers staring, exhausted at the space between speakers, too hungry to listen. So she had acted. She had opened her table to this strange man. 

Why had he rejected her?

Why was Mary’s part better? The Samaritan had cleaned and salved the broken man. She had chosen to care. She had been hospitable. 

“Martha?” It was Jesus. Martha straightened, smeared her tears and sweat away from her eyes, but she didn’t turn around. “Martha?”

“Yes?” So many retorts flew through her head, but her voice promised to shatter if pressed. Her heart was thumping and her hands shook. 

“Martha, I am sorry I embarrassed you.” His voice was gentle and frank. He didn’t follow up with an explanation or press her for a response. A fly landed on the water jar and Martha automatically waved it away. He didn’t rustle or fidget. He stood as if he had stood there for the space of seven generations and could go on standing there until the songs of their time were forgotten. Martha could see that the water in the bottom of the jar was full of sand. It would need to be tipped on its side and scrubbed, dried, and carefully swept clean before it could be filled again.

“Master, I wanted you to have a place—” as promised her voice broke. Tears began to stream down her face, and her face crumpled. 

“Martha, you have loved me so well. The trick is to be satisfied in loving in your own way.”

“But you said her part was better.” Martha’s voice was hard, even harsh.

“Oh Martha. You are a deep river, full and wide. She is a deep well, cool and sweet.” Outside the crickets began to shiver and quake in the cooling night air. A dog barked. Jesus stood like time itself. “Do not require that the well and the river look the same. If you are a river, flow generously. If you are a well, draw deeply. Just don’t look at the well and resent that it isn’t a river.” A smile snuck onto Jesus’s face. “And dinner was delicious.”

Martha turned around, head down, took two steps forward and punched Jesus in the arm. Jesus’s smile turned into a grin. He collapsed against the wall clutching his arm. Mary grinned back.