Every woman I have ever known
has been a Mary and a Martha,
though every preacher I ever heard
might make you think
she could only ever be one.
That Christ only saw one,
when He told me how He loves
— read also, is Himself honored by —
Martha.
He sees Himself in her careful planning and design,
making room and making beds,
considering every disciple
at her etched, crumb enriched table.
Her rising early, packing their lunches,
getting soccer uniforms in the dryer.
Being the only one in the house
knowing where the bug bite cream
is, what we’re getting everyone for Christmas
— even in September — 
noticing a new patch of eczema
— inside right elbow —
what gets left out of the nightly prayer.
He has counted every hair on that frazzled head,
just as He knows the contents of her purse — 
goldfish crackers, wipes, and three acorns
she solemnly promised to transplant 
from the regal park oak,
a courier carrying items of utmost importance.
Sometimes she tires of “always being the one,”
the default, facilitating someone else
choosing the better portion.
But in this way she gets to know
Christ better,
Who always was “the One,”
the Planner, Designer, and Noticer,
The One Who tarried through the night
while others slept on, and Who tarries still,
Who carries our contents on His back —
sustenance, stripes, and burdens
of utter importance and difficulty.
Christ sees them both, Mary and Martha,
and we are not just one.
He makes room for Mary,
quiet pockets in the chaos
— and after the chaos is gone — 
but, oh, also, He loves a Martha.