I’ve always thought of myself as more of a Mary than a Martha. You may be familiar with the biblical story. Jesus comes to visit a couple of M named sisters. Martha plays the dutiful host behind the scenes, buries herself in the kitchen, taking care of stuff. Sure, there are no scan pans, or stainless steel appliances, no on-trend meal plans, but you can see it vivid as day, the woman with her hands furious busy and her head bent down over the meal prep. Maybe she can already feel the muscular tension creeping in, circling its way around the fibres of her neck, even as she hears their voices soft in the background: because when someone walks into your house —when the Lord walks in —you need to pull out some stops.