A son of Martha or of Mary?

I've been thinking a lot lately of Kipling's poem "The Sons of Martha."

Kipling's poems always grab me, and his writing evokes images in my mind almost as clear as photographs. Other poets write things that are beautiful, or stirring, or more often for me annoying and pointless (hey, I'm an engineer). Kipling makes me think.

Why do I do the things I do? Because I'm a son of Martha. Not the best of her sons, to be sure, but one of them without question.

And the sons of Mary are really, amazingly, annoying. I see the people who think that good things will happen because they want them to, and I mark them as sons of Mary. It is possible that good things will happen on their own, true. But good things are much more likely if one works carefully to bring them about.

I'm not sure whether I'm really a good person or not; if not, I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din.

No one can prepare for everything. No one can make everything in their life run smoothly. The sons of Martha don't expect that; we live in a world of imperfections, and we fix the ones we can.

I am a son of Martha.