My house is a disaster. I would take a photo, but it couldn't capture the level of disorganization. Not only are there dust bunnies in the hallway and crusty stuff under my contact lens case, but things are simply out of place. Groceries not unpacked; school papers and books and assignments scattered over multiple surfaces; daily tasks shoved into corners and mounding with a layer of quiet panic. And of course, my daughter's shoes have been multiplying like rabbits near the garage door.
I do not always live in such chaos, but if you have any window into my life this last semester, you know it was insane. My house is simply evidence of a life lived too fast, too full. I don't regret it--although now, I must recover from it.
As I was straightening the bed this morning, I thought about how housework gives me time for meditation. Restoring and refreshing this environment allows my soul to ponder and rest to the steady lapping of my hands.
Ironically, I don't think I would want to live in a clean house all the time.
I love the concept, and I may repent of actually writing that down, but messiness is appealing to me. I get the pleasure of cleanliness. For a few hours after we've had company over, I delight in being able to see the kitchen countertops, the vacuum track marks in the carpet, the smell of furniture polish.
But if I lived in a clean house, I would be most comfortable with...comfort. I would be comfortable with you when you are cleaned up and presentable, with a whiff of polish about you. And honestly, I like being part of the messiness of people. I like the examine the crusty layer that piles up under this belief, the pain shoved off in a corner, the cares that multiply like shoes from a shopping addict. If you clean up before you come see me, you are honestly not very interesting.
It is still my goal to clean the stupid house. But it won't stay that way, because I want to be comfortable when God sends me into messiness. And if you want to come over while I clean the dishes, I will make us coffee.