The house needs cleaning. It always needs cleaning. That fact is hard for someone like me to accept. I like to make lists. Lots of lists. Make a list, complete a project and then cross that task off the list with flourish. But the cleaning never ends. You get it done and then it gets dirty again (rather quickly it seems) and then you have to do it again. It's the same with exercise for me. It never ends. You have to do it regularly and frequently. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.
I'm better with finite tasks. Come up with a project, plan for the project, shop for the project, schedule the project, start the project, complete the project and then...and then! Scraaatchhh that item off your list. Ahh, the satisfaction is palpable.
But oh, the cleaning. The horrible, dreaded cleaning that consumes my mind. Consuming because although I hate to clean, I immensely enjoy a clean house. I love walking into a room and seeing shiny surfaces, dust free corners, spotless rugs, breathing deep and smelling that fresh, just cleaned smell. Love it, love it, love it. But it eludes me. I get discouraged and frustrated with the other creatures in the house that seem hell-bent on undoing all that I do. Sometimes, on a bad day, I think it's maliciousness, but mostly I think it's just carelessness or thoughtlessness or simply being oblivious to the mess.
Just a few days ago I was sitting around trying to muster up the energy to clean the bathroom. And resenting the hell out of it. Wishing that I could afford a housekeeper. Thinking about how much better the quality of my life would be to just have the damn cleaning taken care of. To be able to stop thinking about it for the first time in my life. To just have it DONE. For heaven's sake, is that asking so much?!
That afternoon, I decided to watch Oprah. How to describe the images...people like me, people like Greg, people like my sweet Emma...
They were living in homeless shelters, in tents, in their cars, in their offices. They had lost their jobs, their cars, their homes and all but the barest of their belongings. These were good people - hardworking people - people that just had one too many things go wrong for them. One more maybe than me or you.
It was sobering, of course. Scary. This past year has been rough for us, as it has been for so many others. But by the grace of God we've been able to keep our home. A home with four bedrooms, two and a half baths, dining room, living room, kitchen and a big back yard with deck. And every inch of it has been moaned over, bitched about and neglected to some degree. All because I hate to clean, Greg hates to work on our house after working other peoples' houses all day and Emma simply refuses to pick up after herself - her one area of complete stubbornness.
So, as I sat on my bed watching these people on Oprah - a boy who knew just getting a cake would be a lucky thing for his eleventh birthday, a woman who cried over how dirty her fingernails always were now, a mom desperately trying to keep her young children away from the male population at the shelter they stayed in, a couple that used the shower at the local fitness gym because there wasn't one in their office that has now become their home.
As I watched these people I was humbled. And mortified. And ashamed. Not of them, but of myself. Embarrassed that I had the nerve to complain about having to clean my house when I knew that these people - and thousands of others like them - would do almost anything to have what I have. To have the "problems" that I have. How dare I lament the lack of a housekeeper. What a spoiled brat I am. The only thing keeping me from having the clean home that I want is my own complete and utter laziness.
I promptly got off the bed and went and cleaned the bathroom.
Happily.
With joy.
Yes, JOY people. Complete and utter joy to be cleaning the toilet. My toilet. The one that I own. And two others just like it.
What an absolute privilege. One that I'll never take for granted again.
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