There Better Be Maids In Heaven

I’ve only gone through a few legitimately scary experiences in my life. Had some close calls on an icy highway or two, was chased by a Doberman when I was little, and survived a few questionable pre-salvation situations, not fit for family hour.

But perhaps nothing compares to a recently terrifying experience I had after hearing a knock at the door at 9 a.m. when the laundry machine delivery people decided to arrive four hours earlier than expected. For those reading this without feeling instant dread, this chapter might not mean much to you. But for the sisters who perpetually laisse between the border of messy and disgusting, is there anything so awful as an unannounced visitor, or unexpected passenger in your car when you aren’t “prepared?” No. No there isn’t. There isn’t any way of easing the shame of anyone outside of your inner circle witnessing a messy woman in her natural environment. Or the awkward discomfort felt watching strangers walk past your counters lined with dirty dishes, dried food, and broken eggshells on the floor you told yourself you’d get to after your butt workout.

There are at least a couple arenas of life I consider myself moderately successful. So far, I’ve managed to raise three boys who are healthy, happy and walking with the Lord, and God somehow enables me to lead an effective prison ministry, despite my consistently awkward, valley girl-esque delivery of the gospel. And my husband frequently assures me I’m a great wife, even when he’s not lookin’ for romance.

However, the Lord is sovereign, and with blessings, comes challenges,. While there are always ways to improve our weaknesses, I’ve accepted that in the area of domesticity, I am a complete and utter fail. Whether it’s cooking, cleaning, maintaining any kind of structure or any general domestic functions like gardening or decorating, I’m a literal disaster.

I don’t know what it is. My mom was clean, orderly and a great cook. Both my sisters homeschool their combined total of 11 kids while managing to keep their houses moderately in order and they both know how to work a garden hose. Me? When a relative recently ran over to borrow something while I was out, she almost called the police thinking it was ransacked.

Sigh. I thought maybe my domestic skills would improve with age. Maybe after getting married I’d learn to cook and not confuse a turkey baster with mucus pump. Maybe I’d be a late bloomer and not continually kill any living green thing brought into the house..

I don’t know why I can’t get it together. Friends have literally held cleaning interventions before I’ve hosted important events, and I’ve long been assigned broccoli casserole for 20 consecutive Christmas and Thanksgivings, because it’s the only thing I haven’t massacred.

Clearly, there aren’t many helpful takeaways to this blog post, except to simply to encourage other less domestic divas out there feeling like they’re failing in all areas of home life. You’re not alone. Though it sure does feel like it times, when lots of us grew up memorizing the Proverbs 31 wife passage about a woman with clear control issues and severe OCD. Get that people-pleaser a hobby!

However, I have a theory. I don’t think it’s an irony that Martha Stewart shares the same name as one of my favorite Bible stories, where Jesus calls Martha type A, and gives her sister Mary a gold star for her total denial of cooking obligations. I have long ago identified with Mary, who’d rather soak in the glory of what matters in life.

My kitchen might have scald burns on the ceiling and something might actually be growing in the rear fridge, but it has also seen more dancing and singing than the Grand Ole Opry. I used to feel defeated when comparing myself to friends posting homemade Chicken Marsala pics on a Monday night with their perpetually gleaming baseboards in the backdrop. But no more. The jig is up. I would love for my children to run to the dinner table with gleeful anticipation and fill my whiteboards with daily scripture readings and color-coded chore lists, but I’ve learned to appreciate the strengths I bring to our home, which are admittedly intangible and inedible.

With the Lord’s help there’s a perpetual atmosphere and joy and peace in our house, despite my mood, the season of life, or outside circumstances. There’s always worship music playing, dancing in the kitchen, and side from the occasional fights over another ganked iPhone charger, there is very rarely any negativity. My kids might still think potatoes come from a box and endure the occasional bleach stain, but they know they’re love and cared for. I’ll perfect my step-daughter’s French braid…eventually…