Stories by Sister Jeremy Dempsey, OSB

Most of you know me a bit because of my place in the Gospel stories but it is of Martha I want you to know. One day when Jesus had stopped in and I was nearing a total comprehension of the mystery of the Trinity, Martha banged the back gate as she left on her rounds to check the neighborhood. Thoughtlessly, I blurted, "Oh, Jesus Christ (I should not have added "Christ" but at least I didn't say "Damn it") can't you do something with Martha? She is always banging around just when I have a grasp on the totality of reality."

"Mary, Mary," Jesus said. "Don't you know yet that Martha has chosen the best part?"

My halo slipped a notch, casting me a bit in His shade and I understood neither the Trinity or Eternity or Jesus. And He left me without any further words.

With my mystical stance a bit tottery and my halo still atilt, I went out to the garden to regain my holiness.

Later I thought of those lessons some of us had drilled into us about the simple (or positive, I think) and comparative and superlative and how they were used in our language and how we must be most careful of their use, lest we make a vast error. He said, "The BEST part." And always I had basked in the BETTER.

The sounds of the neighbors' chatter came from the alley and I heard Martha say, "Don't worry tonight. I will be back tomorrow and we will try to fix it."

THE BEST, he said. THE BEST. Slowly it came to me out of some group discussion of Jesus' teachings that...faith without good works is dead. This shook my contemplative self and daily scenes formed over the garden wall.

You know, MArtha was not a beautiful woman who could give you men pause at the well, but she had a strong ace, a determined chin, and compassionate eyes. Her hands were rough, her nails uneven, the cuticles almost invisible. Her feet were substantial and her heart must have had six chambers.

Now I can see her clearly and I want you folks to know her better. I see (or hear) Martha in the kitchen as I am seeing the guests out the front door. I accept their compliments for lunch, the lovely flowers, the clean windows. But the one who did all of this is in the kitchen. Her hair is limp, her apron wet, grease spots on her sleeve and she is clanging the pots.

THE BEST. When the loaves and fish left-overs were gathered, it was MArtha wisking over the hillside leading the garners as she gathered meals for those not able to come. When the Apostles had that big catch and the nets did not break, it was Martha who had a severe backache after cleaning the fish for the multitudes.

Some seers tell me that in centuries to come, some intellects will divide humans into categories called Introverts and Extroverts, A types and they will be given numbers for their personality. With complicated tests and techniques they will be able to analyze every one and no mysteries will be existant. Martha types will not be easy for their graphs.

One evening I heard the gate bang...again...but Martha's step seemed slower. She let the kitchen door slam and sat at the table. I noted her speech was a bit slurred and she was saying something about being exhausted (a word she never used) from taking oil to some virgins in the temple and how tomorrow she had to get more oil for some others who were even less well supplied. Then she just slumped over.

I ran to the neighbors and soon the house and yard were full of people ready to help. I left through the back gate(and I did not bang it) and went down to the stream to adjust my contemplative outlook and weep alone.

THE BEST, He said. And she was. THE BEST at going down the alley with fresh bread (and banging the gate) for the new widow; THE BEST at being there when Lazarus left and returned; THE BEST at being there when the pig farmer lost his herd and when the widow lost her mite.

I now think that Jesus intended the Gospels to have a brief account of MARTHA THE BEST but the Scribes either didn't get it recorded or they did it and it lies buried in some climate-controlled cave on the lakeside. Thank you for including this in the history of our Tribe.

Humbly,
Mary the Better

Prudence

Her analysis of poetry was almost flawless and she knew meter and assonance and synecdoche although the nuances of the word sometimes threw her a bit off course. She could identify all types and forms of poetry; fortunately no one ever asked her to write a heroic couplet or an ode.

She could explain how the rainbow was formed and what exactly caused rain and sleet and snow. She knew how much drag and thrust was needed to fly a plane. She always asked for an aisle seat when flying and prayed for a row partner who would pull the shade for fear they might be flying above the clouds.

She was of sturdy build and resolute intent. Never did she cut a class to watch the seventh game of a World Series or stand with other pseudo Americanized Irish to watch a bright green replica of St. Patrick rock by on a tractor drawn float. She never saw the skyline of the county seat from the ferris wheel at the County Fair or pull cotton candy from her eyebrows.

She always carried a tapestry purse on the crook of her arm. In it you could find a plastic scarf in case of rain; a number of aspirins in case of a sneeze or slight whisper of a sore throat; a bottle of clear nail polish in case of a run. Always TUMS. Never did she sit on a porch swing with a blue friend and drink a bottle of beer and smoke a Camel and say with her, "What the hell!"

Everyone knew her by her mispelled Baptismal name...Dullarosa.

"Forgiveness can be a vexing matter." And for some years I have found the scholar's interpretation of the story of my brother, The Prodigal Son, vexing and I would like to air my sore spots.

Several months ago a group of professional seers and seeresses, prophets and prophetesses, and visionaries held a conference in our village. They spoke in tongues foreign to me, but one day as I poured wine, one of the seeresses asked if something were troubling me. So I told her of my vexation with this Parable, and made some observations that I hoped were helpful.

"My suggestion is that your students and scholars-to-be look at this section of the Gospel with a new lens. Perhaps they could come up with a theme of "steadfastness" or "a simple thank you" or "I saw the tears. You did not." Forgiveness could be a lesser theme."

Now I know I am supposed to forgive 70 times 7 and God knows I have tried. If you will look on the door of the calf barn, you will find my record of the times I have forgiven my brother. One day I was up to 40 times 4 but then I got worked up again and had to erase some.

Let me tell you something of what it was like at home. Everytime there was a whiff of camel or a cloud of dust on the horizon, mother was in the yard peering and sighing, "Maybe it is Nathan...our Nathan." From the fields where I tried to work double time, I could see our father with his hand cupped to his ear listening for your footfall. You were not at the family gatherings when the aunts got around to asking, "Heard anything from Nathan?" Some Friday nights, as I got the swine out of the corn field by myself, I could see our friends going toward the village in their clean shirts. Later I would hear the music and laughter of the dancers. It is hard to do the hora when you are shepherding hogs alone. Every meal I had to sit by your empty plate and mug...just in case you appeared at meal time.

I am ashamed to admit my pettiness but I longed for someone to ask, "And, Rubin, how are you doing? Is it hard to do the work of two?" And I would have said, "You have no idea." But it wasn't the work. It was the tremble of mother's chin, the catch in our father's voice. The unopened birthday gifts, the listening for every strange noise and rumor passed down the road.

When the interpreters get to the famous FATTED CALF passage, I want to stand and roar, "Who do you think fed the fatted calf?" I realize I had a rain-proof roof, a good piece of lean veal, a clean shirt and I was far from unkindness.

But for all of us who had a brother who wandered off to try "the flesh pots of Egypt" while we stayed home and kept the fences mended and the briars cut back so he could return to a home that has been defined as "Something you somehow haven't to deserve" I say to him..."Give us a thank you party with a promise of two weeks off from the chores while you stay home for a bit. And we will keep in touch."

I fear this will not give you pause for thought or put a notion in your heads, but I feel better for speaking out for all of us who kept the home fires burning. Anyway, I do feel less vexed and sore. I thank you for that. Nathan, forgive me.