Long into May and even into June, there was the clatter of stove lids as another fire was laid and coaxed to life in the cook stove to chase the persistent chill from hearth and home. The lilacs, their buds shut tight, waited and waited for the warmth and light of the sun to unfurl their flowers and release their heady fragrance. My farmer husband dumped the rain gauge yet again and wondered aloud how a crop could grow when a fire was needed in the stove eight months of the year. Driving past a field where the tender shoots of corn were poking through the ground, he thought they too must be asking what they’re doing out there in the cold (an aside – In these musings, I’m never quite sure what to call the guy I’m married to … husband? – seems too formal, hubby?- too informal and cutesy, Farmer Fred? – too grade-one reader ish, my man? – too country song ish. I’ve heard of wives being called “my bride”, and I kinda liked that, so I tried the reverse and used “my groom”. That didn’t work for me either. My sister suggested “lover boy”. Maybe if I explore a different genre in writing!).
This last while, I’ve been mulling and musing on a story that I read (and have read countless times before) about two sisters (let’s call them Maggie and Molly). There is little detail given about them and their home though somewhere we hear mention about a brother (let’s call him Larry) who has his own tale to tell. Maggie and Molly were friends with an itinerant teacher (let’s call him Jack) who went from village to village, presenting to all who came to hear, ideas and ways of living that were counter-cultural to the time (and, indeed, remain counter-cultural in this time). So, Jack and his motley entourage, folks who worked in trades of all sorts, arrive at Maggie and Molly’s home. Maggie, full of vim and vigour, welcomes them inside. Everyone gets settled in, and conversation flows with Jack offering his unique perspective on things. Molly has found a spot on the floor and is drinking in his words. Maggie is bustling about getting a meal prepared and ready to serve. When she sees her sister Molly lounging about, she asks Jack if he doesn’t care that her sister has left her to do all the work herself. “Tell her then to help me, ” she implores him. Jack replies, “Maggie, Maggie, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Molly has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
Ouch.
Jack always gave voice to the underdog, but I wonder if he unwittingly created a new underdog with these words. As one who broke stereotypes, I wonder why Jack didn’t offer to get up and help. This was one small exchange between friends, one that they probably never suspected would be written down and read and analyzed by people in years to come. From this ordinary, everyday exchange, Maggie has been typecast as a task master sister, a person concerned and distracted by details, the kind of person not to be. But maybe there’s another way to read this story. Maybe it need not be an either/or story. Maybe it isn’t simply a story of contrasts. Maybe there’s more here than meets the eye.
And so I mulled. And found it noteworthy that it was Maggie who welcomed the crew into her and Molly’s home. She opened wide her door and welcomed Jack and his ragtag bunch into her space. Her request to Jack is prefaced with the words, “Don’t you care”, and in those words I heard for the first time, a plea of sorts. Like the rest of us, Maggie wanted to be seen, noticed, and appreciated. Maybe she has spent her life caring for others and needed to know that someone also cared for her. But what broke open to an entirely new aspect of this story for me was in Jack’s words, “Molly has chosen”. In a new way, I saw that the unspoken invitation to join in the conversation was extended to Maggie as well as her sister, but Maggie chose differently. There wasn’t an assumption on anyone else’s part that Maggie stay with the tasks at hand. Maggie too was invited to sit with the company. As much as Molly chose to be where she was, so did Maggie. It seems that Maggie owned an expectation of herself that she needed to do all the work, and holding that expectation robbed her of life on many levels. Maggie felt compelled by tasks, but she too was welcome to come sit and be a part of the circle (though, interestingly, had she done so, we most likely would not have this story in the repertoire of teachings). The tasks and details in and of themselves were not pernicious; it was the distracted worry that was.
I continue to ponder where in my everyday, ordinary happenings lie my unspoken invitations, my freedom of choice to respond with wholehearted presence? Where am I holding assumptions? And then responding with distracted worry? And frankly, sometimes being absorbed in tasks of preparation and daily living is what frees me up to sit with the likes of Jack. But always, always, there is invitation folded into ordinary, everyday life that can so easily be snuffed out by distraction and fuss. “The devil’s in the detail”, or so they say, but I suspect the divine can also be found there.
…
The aroma of fresh-baked bread lingered in the room as Maggie watched her friends talking and laughing while they savoured the last morsels from her homemade meal. The sting in Jack’s words still smarted as she saw Molly engrossed in conversation. Tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear, she turned to leave, and out of the corner of her eye saw Jack raise his goblet high with that merry twinkle that was never far from his eye. “To Maggie”, he called out, with a wide and disarming grin, “for her kind and generous welcome and for making the most amazing supper this side of heaven!”
“To Maggie!”, a chorus of voices rang out and cups clanked.
Warmth flooded her heart and her cheeks as she hurried back to the safety and comfort of the household chores. Footsteps followed her, and she saw Jack grab an apron from the peg on the wall and tie it around his waist. Soon easy conversation and the occasional chuckle could be heard at that age-old meeting place of dirty dishes and sudsy water. Because sometimes the invitor pursues the invitee.