I know. I know. He’s two. We’re all sleeping. The slobberific boogie man is away on assignment. Don’t hate. I am sure he exists. I imagine him to be a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian, blond and pale with an impish grin much like my friend Serge who bided his working hours terrorizing my every anal retentive moment. It wasn’t his size that put me on edge; when you are 5’ 4” and three quarters, it’s kind of nice to have someone around who can water the plant poised atop your book shelf and fetch the errant projectile that nosedives in the small space between the desk and the window.
No, physically Serge is a gentle giant. It’s the maniacal eyes that accompany that thin-lipped grin. Serge’s nonchalant “hey, how’s it going” would be punctuated by a 3 second silent reign of terror. I would notice one corner of his mouth rise a tad higher than the other side, and the madness would begin. My eyes would be drawn to his translucent orbs as if by magnetic force; despite my greatest efforts, I could not turn away. Then the hypnotic spirals would begin and time would stand still. His x-ray vision would search the most vulnerable area of my brain – the control center – and then it was over. We’d return to the present, and I knew without a doubt that it was on. I would spend the next two hours lost in an I Spy hell searching for the one thing that had been altered whilst I had stepped away for a cup of coffee. A figurine moved 2.5” to the right. One blind raised just a hair higher than the others. A business card turned upside down. If there is indeed a boogie man that preys on the obsessive compulsive, he is most definitely a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian.
Aside from Mr. Fit It Airplane, everything else was in its place, so why is this such a monumental occasion? Considering that I had to talk myself into allowing this total diversion of order and government to occur, and I thought about it more than once in the night, this is a big deal.
I am a control freak. We’re not talking June Cleaver – domesticity is not a passion of mine. We’re talking Reese Witherspoon in Election, Adrian Monk, and Monica Geller all mixed together with a generous helping of Type A+ meets OCD on the side. Hmm. I think this character needs a name as to protect my identity. Let’s call this anal retentive persona – as if I have another side that wouldn’t fit under this description – well, what should we call her? What is the most stuffy, constipated, rigid, frigid name that exists in the human language?
Of course! We’ll call her Martha. Aside – My apologies to all of the Martha’s I love. You are truly wonderful women. On the other hand, this might be a good time for a little introspection. Martha as in the Felix Unger of the Biblical odd couple Martha and Mary. As not to bore you with a full sermon, here’s the long and short of it.
Martha and Mary are sisters. Jesus comes to hang out for a while. Martha plays the perfect housekeeper out of respect for Jesus and his boys. She cooks. She cleans. She primps. She polishes. I wasn’t there that day, but I would bet a lot of money – sorry, God – that not one single Mr. Fix It Airplane accessory was out of place. Then again, Martha lived with her sister and was a bit of a spinster. I’m guessing there were not too many kids to worry about, just cats. Lots and lots of hirsute kitties with names like Sampson and Esau. Okay then. There wasn’t a single cat toy in the middle of the floor or in the dust bunnies behind the stone futon. Martha put that other Martha – pre-prison, of course – to shame. She didn’t have a prayer of outdoing the present day Martha once she earned some street cred by donning that shabby chic prison poncho on release day.
As I mentioned, Martha lives with her sister Mary who, quite frankly, was really beginning to chafe on Martha. During Jesus’ stay, Mary groveled at the man’s feet and mooned at him with every word that fell from his mouth.
“God is good.”
“Oh, Jesus, you are so smart.”
“You are the dirt beneath my thonged sandals.”
“Oh, Jesus, tell me more about my sinful existence and my inevitable spiral into hell.” Mary just could not get enough of what this guy was selling.
As any self-loathing shrinking violet is wan to do when her red rose of a sister is acting the fool and getting the attention of every man in the room, Martha seethed. This wasn’t a “woe-is-me, life isn’t fair” kind of seething. This was a “screw you, little harlot. I’m telling!” kind of seething. And so she did. Martha pulled Jesus aside for a little talk. I imagine it went something like this.
“Hello, Master Jesus. I hope you have been enjoying your stay at our home. Rest assured I have done everything within my power to make you feel comfortable.”
“Why yes, Martha. Thank you for the impeccable accommodations. There is nothing like a fresh bar of rose water soap to lighten the load of thinking about my impending death by crucifixion.”
“Yes, well I’m glad you enjoyed it. I could tell you had used it by the wrapping that was left on the floor. No worries though. I picked it up and disposed of it. I mean, your time is far too important to worry about things such as picking up after yourself, you being the Son of God and all.”
“Peace be with you, Martha.”
“Yes, peace. About that. You may have noticed that I’ve been quite busy throughout the duration of your stay. Of course, I’m pleased to do it, but I wish I could say the same for my sister. I’ve noticed she’s been reclining a lot lately and butting in on your conversations. I’m sure you would be more comfortable if she was fulfilling her role of hostess by helping out a little around the house. I know I would be much more at peace. Might you have a word with her?”
You know the rest of the story. Jesus caps Martha with the business about how she is the one in the wrong because she’s too busy to follow God. Blah blah blah. Less neatening; more worshipping. Honestly though? Name one person who enjoys falling prostrate into a face-full of dried cheese crumbs and dusty cat hairballs whilst seeking the will of God.
So in an effort to see the Jesus in everyone and to treat them accordingly, I try to leave every space as it began. If you were able to fall to your knees in prayer three feet due north and two feet to the left of my front door, by God you should feel confident that that precise spot will always be awaiting you in a similar state. If a Scandinavian boogie man cased my house yesterday without tripping over Mr. Fix It Airplane, he should feel confident of having the same luxury when he returns today.
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