On the freeway I noticed up ahead of me a shiny blue minivan filled with active, jovial youngsters, no doubt headed to soccer practice or on errands with Mom. On the back window, an imposing white Superman Logo, complete with the big “S” for Super, with the word “Mom” etched across it. Cute. Supermom. Suddenly, an overwhelming compulsion shot through me, that I should somehow pull over this unfortunate woman at the wheel and deliver a stern warning to her about the perilous track that she was on.
The warning: Somehow, somewhere, we women have been duped. And Superwomen today everywhere are making deep, dark discoveries: traces of kryptonite in their belief systems; vulnerabilities in their once-impenetrable armor; capes that don’t always quite get them off the ground. We’re only wired as mere mortals, and maybe that’s a good thing. Here’s the setup for the dupe:
Circa 1950. Mom is elated at her new washing machine, and her new vacuum cleaner. Thanks to technology, hours will be taken out of her household drudgery-leaving her extra time before the brood gets home-time to read, visit with Helen next door over the fence, or maybe even for a nap, or precious time in prayer, rest, and refreshment.
1970. Mom is now bored with her novel, and Helen has gone to work. (She says paid work makes her feel more fulfilled, and she just likes getting out of the home. What a nice idea, and extra money, too!) Mom decides to give it a try.
1990: Mom is now a frontline exec. And PTA chair. And local Chamber of Commerce mucky-muck (not to mention soccer club fundraising queen, choir and worship committee diva, and everything else that anyone else couldn’t or wouldn’t do.) But her uniform is intact: she seamlessly emerges from her phone booth several times each day, transforming back and forth from her tweed suit and corporate hairstyle to her cape-and-boots, whenever a crisis calls for it. She’s the family doctor, lawyer, cheerleader, teacher, chauffer, maid, chef and psychiatrist. As if that’s not enough, she feels a growing, nagging restlessness inside, whispering to her that unless she’s made her mark somewhere on the corporate or cultural worlds, she may be falling short of her goal as a total person. Rearing happy, well-adjusted children are nice, but there’s more. A warm and intimate marriage is okay, but there’s more. A well-kept home and peace in life are fine, but there’s more. There’s more. There…is the dupe. What is this ….more? And what happened to all that precious time for prayer and refreshment? Can we continue to just pour out and pour out without taking time to be poured into?
In the book of Luke, Jesus accepts Martha’s dinner invitation to her home in Bethany. As He arrives, she bolts into action. So much to do! So little time! And it MUST be done perfectly! And, because it’s all for Him, it’s worth exhausting oneself, if need be. Martha has learned to be all things to all people, ensuring that others are comfortable, fed, rested, and refreshed, while getting a little caught up in her cape along the way. She serves dutifully, dependably, lovingly…yet without grasping the greater concept that others (including her own sister Mary) there that night had grasped: that of balance, enjoyment, and rest. Through their encounter, Martha finds that it is possible for things to get done, even if she takes time to be poured into. It can somehow all work out. She finds that time spent for refreshment will multiply and make more excellent that which she pours out to others.
In today’s culture, there is another Martha whose name comes to mind as synonymous with perfection, creativity, and poise in the woman’s world. Ever-prepared with recipes, home décor, (no doubt much like the other Martha!) and etiquette for a sudden quaint gathering of 24, Martha glibly and stoically models the Superwoman of today, all the while running her formidable corporation with the ease of weeding her perfect garden. Every woman wants to be Martha. Martha has more.
2005: My kids are raised and gone from the home. I cry. Loved ones are aging and dying. Mom is battling cancer, and is in need of much care and time together. Plans for long-awaited dreams, such as newer homes and children’s weddings, are completed, bringing joy, but honestly, utter exhaustion. Full-time work along with a commute from the new dream home bring all-new marriage and household chore issues which neither I nor my husband enjoy. My Superwoman outfit is beginning to wear thin. Once, in mid-transformation, the leg of my uniform got tangled with my pantyhose and threatened to tip the whole phone booth over. (And I never did find my high-heeled shoe). This would never happen to Martha. Emotional signs of burnout grow more apparent daily, and, because feelings this intense are new to me, they are terrifying. As a matter of fact, everything is terrifying. Budget, health, family… I am in the throes of burnout at its worst (aka nervous exhaustion, depression, anxiety, et al.) I have found my kryptonite-my own limited nervous system, and I just have to face it- someone else will have to save the world for now, while this mere mortal takes time to heal.
In the course of my complete recovery, I have discovered what our Bible-day Martha has discovered - that our modern-day Martha hasn’t necessarily got more. With a few weeks of medicine to set my bearings straight, and hours and hours at the feet of the Savior, I am learning to let go of compulsions to “do” and am discovering how to simply “be.” (Not “be somebody,” but just, “be.”) This has taken a radical reprogramming of my circuitry, not to mention a new wardrobe. Good thing- threadbare superhero garments are passé anyway these days.
My only daughter is due to deliver our first grandchild any day. There is so much that I want to tell her regarding these things. At times I wonder just how much “Superwoman” thinking I have programmed into her over the years - and how to fix it- how to guide her gently, safely to the Savior’s feet where she, and her daughters, and their daughters belong. I want to tell her that it matters none whatsoever who you become- only that you be yourself - and enjoy yourself- in getting there. Whether you receive attention for your gifts and potential is not nearly as important to God as whether you fully enjoy those gifts and watch with anticipation where God will send you to maximize them. I want to explain that “having it all” doesn’t have to mean tossing out your briefcase and day timer, and flopping into a tub of Calgon with a half-drunk bottle of Geritol. It just means finding precious, scriptural balance: in work, in family, in life.
There really is more. And we can have it daily. “Life, more abundantly!” –John 10:10.
So, sister, when next you feel your biceps bulge, and the impulse to leap a tall building in a single bound…
Leave the heavens to God…take a cab.
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