Exactly
when my family needs to leave for an extended time away from home, a switch
goes off in me and I run around cleaning madly—wiping sinks, counters, picking
up newspaper recycling, sweeping the kitchen, straightening pillows on the
couches. What is this? Is it an instinctual nesting thing? Can I
blame my Maker for this, or is it some result of the Fall of mankind? I think (and say out loud to the victims, my
family) that this 10-second tidy happens because I want to come back to a
lovely and inviting home later. But
maybe it is something more sinister, like some new “D” to add to ADD, OCD, BPD,
RAD, or whatever. Looks like I finally
get letters after my name, for free.
Usually
the clean sweep is relegated to the downstairs, but yesterday I made the
mistake of going back upstairs for something forgotten and looked at my
children’s rooms and husband’s home office. Now, as the only tidy person in my
family of four, it is never a surprise to see what looks like utter bedlam when
I pass these doors. Usually, I tune it
out. But oh for the love of humanity, I now
know that if I pass their doors when I am in my inexorable
nesting/cleaning/leaving the house loop, all heck will break loose as I attack
the chaos, while complaining bitterly against the hapless inhabitant of the
space. My pupils dilated. My vision narrowed. I swooped in.
One
room I couldn’t do anything for. I may
have picked up some Halloween candy wrappers, but quickly saw it was a battle too
large. “I am so sick of this!” I spat to the husband who happened to be within
ear-shot. The other child’s room became
reasonably presentable within a few minutes, save for the mountainous pile of
clean laundry shoved into the closet. The husband’s teetering coffee cups,
plates and bowls were sent downstairs with the instigator to put into the
dishwasher, with a little scolding, as well.
All the things I pretend don’t bother me daily I said out loud,
unkindly—the standard, Why am I the one
who gets to clean everyone else’s mess –just as we are leaving for
church. Yep, church. You know, that place where we’re all supposed
to love and accept each other, messes and all.
The
car ride was an especially silent one as I simmered and fumed about my family’s
lack of concern for me. Not only do I
get to do all their work, but they all look wounded that I’m being mean to them
about it. So, I’m supposed to do all
your work with a smile? Bitter thoughts,
bitter thoughts, on the way to the House of the Lord.
We
walked in the doors of church, late of course, and though I wanted to blame my family’s
untidy habits, I could only blame myself. Feigning a smile as the tears
threatened, I joined the prayer circle that had already begun sharing requests
before services. I wondered if people
could see the guilt on my face. As we
prayed, I wanted to say out loud “Forgive us our messes,” and fortunately by
then I meant my own. I was too ashamed
to admit my frailty out loud, but God heard my silent prayer. Enough time had passed for my temper to flare
out, and I saw how ugly my own sin looked, my own mess, whatever this “D” is. I am the one whose heart needs the most
forgiveness. I was so glad, so relieved,
to be there with others who also know we need a Savior. Real people, real love, real life is our motto,
after all.
Our messes may look different from each other,
but we all need the Father’s grace to forgive others and our selves. The timing for my temper tantrum may have
been horrible, or it may have been perfect, as I fell into God’s gracious arms during
worship and nodded gratefully as Pastor Kyle preached his classic sermon about
Jesus: “People are dying; there is a Cure; Jesus is the Cure.” I’m clinging to the Cure today. How about you?
