I don’t have it all together. I’m not always (or even usually) organized, neat, or responsible. We leave dishes in the sink and laundry piled on the beds. We let the kids play in dirt and mud. They climb trees and run through water hoses. They have goats as pets. They live inside the house, sometimes. They give birth in our garage. They have, on occasion, slept in our beds. There are tissues everywhere. Used ones. I get allergies fairly often and am incapable of throwing my tissues away. They’re on the night stands, the end tables, the coffee tables, and eventually they pile up and billow onto the floor and we just step right over those puppies and pretend we don’t see them. Except for Jon. They inexplicably drive him crazy, so he frequently makes a trip around the house to clean them up without complaint. That man loves me. And then there’s the family vehicle. Suffice it to say that when we open the doors (by crawling in through the passenger seat, because none of the others work,) food wrappers, hay, and papers billow out like confetti. Once a month or so, I’ll make the kids clean it as punishment for some especially heinous crime. It requires a shovel and several trash bags.
And you know what? That’s okay with me. I mean, it’s embarrassing and creates some awkwardness when people drop by unexpectedly, or need a ride in our van (or even just see us pile out of our van, with the stuff-chasing that ensues.) But over the years, I’ve learned to let these things go in favor of keeping sane. Because whenever I decide that I want one of those highfalutin clean houses and some a’them squeaky-behind-the-ears children, I tend to get overbearing, pushy, irritable, and angry with my junior cohabitants. I suspect it’s that way for a lot of us moms who wear so many hats and juggle so many precious responsibilities.
“Where the stalls are clean, the stable is empty.” (Proverbs 14:4)
Our lives are full.