Daniel Brooks Facebook ad: “Which Woman of the Bible Are You?”

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1006637298968391

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Last month our son told my wife she was too much. She'd just invited the kids for Easter. He said it like it was obvious. Like she should have known. She hung up, walked into the kitchen, and started putting away the dishes she'd already set out for company. Didn't say a word. I've been married to her for 32 years. I've never seen her go that quiet. You have to understand who Carol is. She's the woman who starts planning Easter in February. Who calls the kids in March to confirm. Who buys the good napkins, dyes eggs with the grandkids, and makes sure everyone's favorite dish is on the table. She found Proverbs 31 in her twenties and decided that was her calling. The woman whose lamp never goes out. Whose children rise up and call her blessed. And she lived it. Every single day. She was my extravert. The one who walked into a room and made everyone feel like they'd been expected. Our house was never quiet. There was always someone at the table. Neighbors. Church friends. Her sister's kids. That one couple from small group who had nowhere to go for Christmas. Honestly? Sometimes it wore me out. I'd come home after a long week wanting quiet and there'd be eight people in the kitchen. I'd say: "Carol, can we just have one night to ourselves?" She'd laugh and say: "There's always room for one more." That was her. That's who she was. Our son called on a Tuesday evening. Carol had just gotten off the phone with her sister. Good mood. Laughing about something. She picked up when she saw his name. I was in the other room. I could hear her voice go warm the way it always does when the kids call. "Honey, I wanted to talk about Easter. I was thinking we could all—" Then silence. Then: "I understand." Then she hung up. I waited. She didn't come in. I walked to the kitchen doorway. She was standing at the counter. Back to me. Slowly, quietly, picking up the plates she'd already set out. The good ones. The ones she only uses for family. Stacking them one by one back into the cabinet. I said her name. She said: "He said I'm too much. That they need space this Easter." Still had her back to me. Still stacking plates. "He said it nicely. He wasn't mean about it." She closed the cabinet. "That almost made it worse." That night she didn't sleep. I woke up at 2 AM and her side of the bed was empty. Found her in the living room. Sitting in the dark. Hands in her lap. I sat down across from her and waited. Finally she said: "I just invited my kids for Easter. That's all I did. And apparently that's too much." I didn't say anything. She said: "Jesus told Martha she was worried about too many things. I always thought He was being gentle with her. Now I think maybe He was telling her something she didn't want to hear." She looked at her hands. "Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I've always been the problem." I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because I realized something sitting there in the dark. Carol had built her entire identity around that table. Around being needed. Around being the one who made everything warm and full and good. And I had let her. For 32 years I had walked into that warmth and never once asked what it cost her to keep it burning. The quiz happened about a week later. She was in bed. Couldn't sleep again. Scrolling her phone. She got very quiet. Then said: "Daniel." "Yeah." "I got Martha." I'll be honest with you. My first thought was — honey, you think a quiz is going to fix this? Our son said what he said. A Bible personality test isn't going to change that. But I'd learned by then to keep that thought to myself. So I just said: "What does it say?" She read it to me slowly. Martha. The one who worked while everyone else sat. Who filled every room, fed every guest, kept everything running. Who loved through doing because she didn't know any other way. And when Jesus came to her house — when the most important guest she'd ever had walked through her door — she was in the kitchen. Missing it. Carol's voice got quiet. Then she read me the line that stopped her: "Martha, Martha. You are worried and upset about many things. But only one thing is needed." She looked up at me. "He wasn't criticizing her cooking," she said. "He was saying — you're so busy making room for everyone that you forgot to make room for Me." She set the phone down. "I've been so busy keeping the lamp burning that I forgot who I was keeping it burning for." She started the plan that night. The first lesson asked her one question: "Are you serving from love — or are you serving to be loved?" She told me she sat with that for a long time. Because she knew the answer. Every Easter she'd planned. Every table she'd set. Every call she'd made in March to confirm, to organize, to make sure everyone was coming. It wasn't just generosity. It was fear. If she stopped — would they still show up? Would they still need her? Would she still matter? The table wasn't just hospitality. It was the only way she knew how to say: please don't forget me. The plan showed her something about Martha she'd never seen. After Lazarus died, Martha was the one who ran out to meet Jesus on the road. Not to serve Him. Not to feed Him. Just to be with Him. "Lord, if You had been here..." She didn't have anything to offer. No food. No table. No plan. Just her grief and her faith. And Jesus met her right there. Carol read that and cried for the first time since the phone call. "She got to just be a person," she said. "Not the hostess. Not the one holding everything together. Just a person who needed Jesus." She started sitting in the mornings after that. Not planning. Not organizing. Not thinking about who was coming and what she needed to prepare. Just sitting. With her coffee and her Bible. Receiving instead of giving. She told me one morning: "I've spent thirty two years being Martha. I never let myself be the guest at my own table." She didn't follow up about Easter. Not as punishment. Not to make a point. Because for the first time in thirty years she wasn't building the holiday around whether they'd show up. Our son called her three weeks later. Out of nowhere. Just to talk. At the end he said: "Mom, you seem different. Good different." She hung up and looked at me. "I'm not waiting for them to come to the table anymore," she said. "I finally sat down at the right one." I loved Carol's hospitality for 32 years. I ate at that table every night. I watched her fill our home with warmth and I called it her gift. I never called it what it also was — a woman who needed to be needed because she didn't know she was already loved. I was part of that. I let her keep giving without ever making sure she felt received. But watching her now — sitting quietly in the morning, not rushing to fill every silence, not planning the next gathering — I see a woman I haven't seen in years. Not the hostess. Not the Proverbs 31 performer. Just Carol. And that's more than enough. If your wife has spent her whole life setting the table for everyone else — If she's been told she's too much by the very people she gave everything to — If she's still waiting to feel chosen by her own kids — Maybe show her this. The quiz takes three minutes. She'll find out which Woman of the Bible shares her story. And she'll get a daily plan built around who God actually made her to be. Not more giving. More receiving. Link below.

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goduomo.com

Which Woman of the Bible Are You? 👉