It was Pentecost Sunday; a day to celebrate. It’s a five-minute stroll from my house to church, and I was eager to get there. Maybe too eager – if that’s not a heretical statement.
When my children were small, I was forever reminding them to watch where they were going. (Not that they took much notice – the eldest once walked into a gatepost because he was trying to read a book on the way to school.) I should have listened to myself: I turned my ankle on a stretch of uneven pavement, lost my balance and ended up sprawled across the grass verge. Being a “tough Yorkshire lass”, however, I got up and carried on.
By mid-afternoon, my right ankle was half as big again as my left. Hubby looked alarmed. Fortunately, our nearest hospital has a minor injuries unit, so half an hour later I was being prodded at by a dour Scottish nurse. I waited for him to tell me to stop fussing and send me home with some paracetamol.
“Definitely broken,” he said, “we’ll find you some crutches.”
Six weeks of enforced rest sounds attractive – but I’ve discovered that I’m hopeless at sitting still. Even when my body is (of necessity) idle my mind still whizzes along at 100 miles per hour. And so I’ve been writing reports, preparing for exams, messing about on Facebook…
I’m frequently challenged by the story of Mary and Martha (Luke 10: 38 – 42). I’d like to be a Mary, someone who’s comfortable sitting at Jesus’ feet and enjoying his company. If I’m honest, though, I know that I’m often more like Martha. It’s not that I don’t want to be with Jesus: I’m just too easily distracted. I feel the need to impress God with my activity levels rather than remembering that he loves me for who I am.
Thankfully, God hasn’t finished with me yet; I am “a work in progress”. As I get older (and hopefully wiser), I trust that he will help me let go of my busyness, and learn instead to rest in his presence.