The Invitation I Almost Missed
Photo image courtesy A.C. for Unsplash
It was my junior year in high school. I had recently been diagnosed with what was then called ADD. I finally understood that my brain was not less than; it was running all the time, like a motor in a car.
My faith was deepening when I read the account of two sisters in Luke 10. Jesus was traveling and stopped at the home of Martha and Mary. Martha was busy preparing to welcome Jesus and His disciples while Mary sat at His feet, “listening to what he taught” (Luke 10:39 NLT). I was busy just like Martha. When I read the story, I felt Jesus was scolding her. She was exasperated and wanted help getting everything done. I remember feeling irritated, distracted, and confused.
I was also running away from fears. When I slowed down long enough to listen, scary thoughts rushed in, so I kept moving. Some of that restlessness was part of how my ADHD brain functioned. But I was discovering that staying busy helped me avoid thoughts and feelings I didn't know how to manage. When I read that Martha was “distracted,” I could relate. I felt less than because I struggled to sit still long enough to listen. At 17, I believed the lie that my difficulty slowing down disappointed God. I wondered if He would remain steady and keep seeing me as His beloved child.
Looking back, I see a scared teenager desperately seeking approval, longing to be seen and heard. I would gently remind her, “God already sees you and loves all parts of you, including your busy brain. You don't have to become less busy to become more loved.” I now embrace that productivity isn't bad. But sometimes I use busyness to protect myself from insecurity and fear. Only as I've grown older have I recognized that what I once interpreted as criticism may actually have been an invitation.
For most of my life, productivity made me feel safe because it gave me something I could control. I had become my own version of “The Little Engine That Could”, believing that if I kept going and accomplishing more, I would somehow feel more secure. I could control what I checked off my to-do list, but I couldn't control others or prevent bad things from happening. As I matured into adulthood and motherhood, my need for control intensified. Somewhere along the way, I began believing that if I stopped moving, something bad might happen. The pressure to keep everything together became exhausting.
Our beautiful brains learn through repeated experiences. When my brain sensed fear, real or perceived, staying busy temporarily helped me manage uncertainty. Over time, my brain learned a familiar pattern: doing gave me a sense of control. Under stress, our brains often draw upon previously learned responses. Even when a pattern no longer serves us well, we may keep returning to what feels familiar.
But what if we became curious about what our busyness is doing for us? Perhaps noticing and naming the feelings arising within us could help interrupt that familiar cycle and create space for a different response. Thanks to neuroplasticity, our brains retain the capacity to develop new patterns. Recognizing this has changed how I understand Mary and Martha. What once sounded like criticism now sounds more like an invitation.
Sitting at Jesus' feet and listening doesn't mean productivity is wrong. At 17, that was difficult for me to understand. I've since learned to cherish my busy brain while embracing moments of stillness. I can acknowledge my fears, give myself permission to slow down, and invite God into the present moment. Mary chose to receive Jesus' presence and teaching. What if Jesus wasn't criticizing Martha's desire to serve, but inviting her to receive something she didn't have to earn?
As Thanksgiving approaches, I wonder how many of us find ourselves in Martha's position. We are busy preparing, serving, and making sure everyone else has what they need. Sometimes we're so busy preparing a place for everyone else that we forget we're invited to sit at the table, too. Perhaps receiving is difficult because we've become accustomed to believing everything depends on us. But receiving isn't weakness. It's acknowledging we were never meant to carry everything alone.
In my new book, The God Who Sees Me, I reflect on a truth that has taken me years to embrace: “But God kept seeing me anyway. Even within all the noise.” Perhaps that's part of the invitation to receive—allowing ourselves to be fully seen, known, and loved without earning it.
What if Thanksgiving isn't only about recognizing what we've been given, but also learning how to receive it?
