Dear Messy House,
I’m not sure if this letter will ever get to you, but I hope that if enough people share the feeling then the cacophony of commiserators will shut you up (or at least drown you out). I see you judging me when I walk in the door, you with your messy floors and piled up dishes. Get down from your high horse, you’re the messy one, not me! I’ve taken your silent insults and guilt trips long enough. I refuse to be controlled by you any longer. You don’t define me! You’re not a representation of my soul. People aren’t better off if I support your constant need for order. Lies, all lies, and I’m tired of it!
I used to believe your Machiavellian manipulations, accepting that I couldn’t do anything else until I take care of you. Convincing me the more stuff on my counter, the more chaos in my heart. Robbing me of time with those I truly love. No, I will not listen to you anymore.
Today I’m going to leave the pancake griddle on the counter, and the dog toys on the floor. I’m going to walk right past the dinner table of Pinterest preoccupation and I’m going to do what I was made to do:
I’m going to love others more than removing my mess.
I’m going to push aside the piles and play with my peeps.
I’m going to call a friend and ask about her day.
I’m going to write something that will encourage someone who suffers with the same neuroses as I.
I’m going to listen to the Spirit that calls me to participate in his presence more than perfect my palace.
I want to choose the path that Mary chose, and join the party that sits at his feet in the midst of the mess and sees only his face.
I want to remember that I’m saved by the results of the immaculate conception not the immaculate home.
I’ll get to those dishes later, and that’s ok.
Dear Messy House,
Martha doesn’t live here anymore.