Martha Baker With a Mary Heart

 

Martha Baker With a Mary Heart

My wife Michelle knew Martha and Mary quite well.  They were, after-all, her two grandmothers. 

Martha was Michelle’s paternal grandmother.  She was a woman shaped by the demands of farm work.  Her house was simple and clean.  She was a dependable and valued member of the Women’s Altar Society that kept the church linens laundered and pressed.  She took life seriously, for the most part.  One of her weekly tasks was baking bread for the week on Saturday mornings.  Michelle and her siblings and any visiting cousins ran in and out of the kitchen, occasionally stopping to grab a butterscotch hard candy from the glass bowl perched on the little corner hutch.  Grandma didn’t try to stop them, or seemingly get upset with the trampling herd of grandchildren.  However, if you strayed too close at the wrong moment, Grandma might just whap you across the face with the bread dough that she was kneading.  The victim grandchild had the look of surprise and a coating of white flour across their face.  Grandma said nothing, but she would laugh out loud.

Mary was Michelle’s maternal grandmother.  She was a widowed young with five growing children.  She played the piano at the town’s little Methodist church, and in the parlor at home.  All of the children were encouraged to play music.  She compensated her fatherless children as best she could with lax house rules, extra play and an abundance of sweet treats.  When Michelle came along as the eldest grandchild, the spoiling became generational.  At this grandma’s house frosting was a food group of its own.   

My wife did not choose a model between the two of them; she chose what she felt were the best traits of each.  For the most part that has proven to be a blessing for me and our family together.  Today is a case in point.  As I write this post we are hunkered down and praying to ride out the biggest blizzard in years.  The most practical way to ensure that digging out isn’t too demanding, is to dig out about every eight hours or so even as the storm still howls. 

About mid-morning I headed outside for round one.  When I opened the main garage door I could see that almost a foot of snow had already fallen.  It was heavy and wet snow that bogged the snowblower down until I realized that it went much better if I only took about half of the snow in-take wide, but even at that I had to go back over everything a second and at times even a third time to get down to the concrete.  The village snowplow driver obviously had the same plan as he had already gone through the first time as well.  Where he had pushed the snow, packed and deep, at the end of the driveway was especially difficult to clear. 

By the time I had the driveway cleared for the first time of this storm, I was sweaty and ready for a rest.  I went downstairs to remove my boots and winter gear.  As I came back upstairs I headed to the kitchen to get a drink of water.  Michelle already had a glass filled and waiting on the counter, she was taking a batch of fresh scones out of the oven, and the coffee pot was full and fresh. 

The story isn’t quite the same as Luke’s, I know.  But the lesson is the same.  Both with Luke’s version and mine, it is really a matter of the heart.  Martha could have been content if she had simply served out of love rather than obligation.  Michelle has that figured out.  And I, by the grace of God, have chosen the better part, and I am grateful that it hasn’t been taken from me.

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan