The Martyrdom of Martha

A short story

Martha knew she would suffer martyrdom when she opened her eyes. She found Jeff snoring as always, again having taken all the blankets off her. The annoyance from the morning shivers and the repetitive noise escaping his nostrils was usually enough to make her forget whatever dream she had had before waking up. Still, it was not the case this morning. She had just had an apparition of Jesus Christ in a dream. Years of religious reading had taught her that being unforgettable was a trait of a true supernatural experience.

“Martha, Martha, will you accept what I offer you?” Jesus asked Martha in her dream. He was holding a crown of red roses. Though she had no idea what specific future event the Lord had in mind, the significance of the red crown could not be clearer. Our Lady had offered two crowns to St. Maximilian Kolbe: one white, symbolizing purity, and one red, for martyrdom. He had died a religious priest and a martyr, as a witness of love against the evil of Auschwitz. As a married woman, it was a bit late for Martha to win a white crown, but Jesus was still asking her to become a martyr.

“My Lord and my God, let me go die with You,” answered Martha, without hesitation. Jesus put the rose crown on her head, and she woke up the next moment. The feel of the thorns on her head was still there.

Martha stayed in bed for some time, not knowing how long. When she checked her phone, she learned the mass was about to start in twenty minutes. She was supposed to be at the mass as the lector. She almost let out a swear word but refrained from it. She could die any time now. It was not the best time to sin further.

After a fast and furious driving, she arrived at the church with a wham through the gate as Fr. Stephen was saying the Dominus vobiscum. She hurried to the first aisle, right before Maya. Fr. Stephen slightly frowned, beating his chest and reciting the Mea culpa. Yes, Fr. Stephen, I’m late again. But who else besides me can you find to volunteer at a 5 AM mass? Do you really have to make that face? Fr. Stephen was a little dictator when it came to liturgies and would have small breakdowns whenever anything did not go as planned. Martha could picture him nervously stamping his feet since she had not shown up on time. And Maya, Jesus Christ, Maya—sorry for the language, Lord, please forgive me—but why does she always refuse to do any tiniest volunteer work at the church if she is going to come every day, anyways? Maybe she can climb up a few steps and read today’s reading even right now? Why don’t you have a talk with her before making that face to me, Fr. Stephen? I even volunteer to clean the church every week!

Martha knew she needed a Confession after the mass, and so she did. Again, she was going to die. She merely did not know how and when. Even through the screen, she could sense the annoyed tone of Fr. Stephen. Getting out of the confessional and looking at his face, Martha could tell her impression was not wrong. Then suddenly, a thought crossed her mind: I am going to die anyhow, right?

Out of an urge she could not restrain, Martha affectionately hugged Fr. Stephen. Fr. Stephen was stunned, with his eyes widened.

“Ma, Martha, I am a priest…” He said, in shock.

“Father, I forgive you for all. I will be praying for you, even when I’m not here anymore,” Martha said, letting go of Fr. Stephen. She stepped away, and Fr. Stephen was obviously confused.

“Just, just, don’t be late tomorrow, okay?” Fr. Stephen shouted towards the back of Martha, who was already hurrying out. This remark from him gave her an epiphany. The parishioners were going to gather at the church tomorrow, get on a bus, and hit the road to participate in the papal audience. His Holiness was in town, and it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for her and the parishioners to see him. The pope was even going to celebrate a mass. Of course, there is going to be a shooting there! When the shooter draws his gun, I will make a jump in front of his muzzle, saving the life of the Vicar of Christ… Anticipating her death, Martha sensed the blood rushing into her head.

The thought of becoming a martyr hindered Martha from noticing Maya at the parking lot. She almost bumped against Maya, who was holding a cigarette between her fingers.

“Oh,” exclaimed Maya, throwing away the cigarette. Martha always had to pick up cigarette butts from the parking lot. She was about to shout at Maya, not because of this one-time incident but because of all the accumulated emotions towards her. However, instead of shouting, Martha burst into tears.

“Goodbye, Ma, Maya, I, I, will mi, miss you,” muttered Martha, sobbing. The emotional burst was unexpected for her, just as much as for Maya. Maya momentarily stayed zoned out.

“Are you okay, Martha? What happened?”

“Noth, nothing… everything’s okay, it’s just, the Lord’s will…” Martha’s nose was running in a very ugly way.

“What are you talking about? Are you moving away? What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, Maya. We will, we will, definitely meet again, God willing.”

Martha picked up Maya’s cigarette from the ground and put it in her pocket before driving away. Back home, she discovered that Jeff had left for work. His coffee mug was unwashed and not even in the sink. She could not feel angry. She knew this might be the last time she washed the coffee mug for Jeff, and that she would miss doing it. Washing the coffee mug took longer than usual since she was ugly crying again and could not see properly because of the tears. I should wash my face before Blaise, Augustine, and Therese wake up. The thought made her cry even more.

At the breakfast table, the kids did not notice she had been crying. Blaise was busy scrolling on his phone, Augustine was making fun of Therese, and Therese threw her spoon at Augustine for it. The spoon had been dipped in a bowl of meatballs. Blaise sighed, stood up, and stormed out of the kitchen. Martha followed him to his room, hurriedly.

“Blaise, we need to talk.”

“What, you expect me to wait for them to finish their breakfast? Seriously?” He was putting his headphones on. Do you really need those headphones when your mom is going to die tomorrow? She barely held herself from shrieking.

“No, I need to talk with you,” said Martha, calmly.

Blaise gazed at Martha without a word.

“Okay Mom, first, it’s not cool that you are going through my stuff. Still, I tried it only once, and—”

“—Blaise, no matter what happens, remember that I love you forever. I want you to take good care of Augustine and Therese. Take good care of Dad, too. Honestly, he will be a mess by himself. Honestly, he’s already a mess, but still.”

The words from Martha made Blaise put the headphones on his neck and think. He looked extremely worried.

“Mom, you didn’t smoke my stuff, right?”

Martha gave a hug to Blaise and went back into the kitchen. She changed the clothes of Augustine and Therese without any sign of frustration, making them feel surprised. After seeing all the kids off at the door, she cleaned the kitchen, which now looked like a crime scene from all the tomato sauce. She then spent the whole day organizing the house.

In the evening, a festive dinner was prepared. Martha even wrote down the recipes for all the dishes and handed them to Blaise. Everyone but Blaise looked quite happy. Blaise clearly wanted to ask Martha something, but could not, out of the fear that he would have to first say out his deed in front of the whole family in order to articulate his suspicion.

In bed, Martha turned around, facing Jeff. He was fast asleep already. She used to feel resentful about it. It seemed Jeff was not spending enough time with her. Nevertheless, she wanted to let him sleep soundly on their last night together. She gently shook her, and he groaned in an irritated tone. “Jeff,” whispered Martha.

“Yeah?” Jeff answered. He could not even open his eyes.

“You’ve been the best husband for me.”

“Well, how many husbands did you have before me?”

She kind of wanted to punch him for the untimely joke. Instead, she let him keep all the blankets for himself. The night was long and cold.

The day of the expected martyrdom arrived. Martha prayed the rosary on the bus. She thought she might pee her pants. Even though she had said that she would accept martyrdom, it was not easy to accept death. Lord, help me accept what you asked of me. The bus was approaching its destination.

Martha had expected that she would be near His Holiness. She could not be any more wrong. The pope was a tiny white spot for her, only recognizable thanks to his mitre, and thousands of people were standing between them. It seemed she was not going to die like Kevin Costner from The Bodyguard.

The mass started, and Martha could not concentrate on the mass at all. It was partly because Whitney Houston’s song was playing nonstop in her head. And I-I-ee-ee-ee-ee-I-ee-I-I will always love you-u-u-u… Oh, for God’s sake, stop it, Martha! God put you here for a reason. It must mean the shooter is really close. He can take out his gun at any point now... I, I will always love you-u-u… God-damn it! Oh, sorry again, Jesus!

All of a sudden, Martha realized that she had been mindlessly presuming that the shooter would be a man. She looked around again, carefully scanning for a woman with a suspicious pulse. Unfortunately, Martha was surrounded by hundreds of old ladies, all of them with a pulse.

Martha was still busy looking for the shooter when Fr. Stephen touched her shoulder. She literally jumped off the ground with a scream and almost fell on the ground. Fr. Stephen held his hands up as if trying to convey that the touch was of nothing inappropriate between a priest and a parishioner.

“I’m just saying, we need to go now!” Fr. Stephen shouted into the air. Martha turned her head. His Holiness was already gone, and people were pushing from behind. She had even forgotten to take Communion.

Back home, Martha wondered what had happened. The best explanation she could come up with was that Jesus had concluded she was unworthy of the martyr’s crown. Maybe it was because of her too much inner swearing. She felt relieved and frustrated at the same time: relieved that the shooter had decided not to be a murderer, the pope had not been shot, and she had not died, but also frustrated that she could not become a martyr like Jesus had asked. It was good and confusing to be alive.

That night, Jesus Christ appeared in her dream again. “Am I dead now?” Martha asked, rather dumbly.

“No,” He answered.

“Why didn’t you let me die then?”

Jesus took her by the hand and led her to a screen. On the screen, the scene where she was hugging Fr. Stephen played.

“You died there,” He said.

“Did I?!”

“Martha, Martha… as in, dying to yourself.”

Martha thought Jesus would slap His forehead, but He did not. “No, I am not doing it,” He interrupted her thoughts before the screen played another scene. Martha was with Maya. “You died there, too. And there, and there. Oh, also there,” He continued to comment on the moments from Martha’s day.

“So, that’s my martyrdom?”

Then, Martha noticed that she was wearing the crown of red roses. She could not feel the thorns this time.

“Take up your cross and follow me.” Jesus began to walk away. He was getting smaller from her view.

“Wait, Lord, just one thing!”

Jesus turned around.

“I hate your sense of humor,” Martha declared.

“Martha, Martha, woe to you. I am the Creator of humor.” Jesus walked a few more steps away before turning around again. “And Jeff shares My sense of humor.”

The next moment, Martha woke up to find Jeff next to her. She was truly alive, and Jeff had stolen the blankets from her, as always. He was snoring.

Martha punched him lightly, just enough to stop his snoring.

If you enjoyed my work, you can buy me a cup of tea. I am not a coffee person, by the way.