the house is a mess; come on in
Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof…
Christ, I’d be impressed if you made it past the driveway.
Cracks lined with weeds. Untrimmed hedges. A half-mowed lawn. Plastic children’s toys abandoned to bleach in the sun in that tacky way I swore I’d never let happen in my yard.
And if you did brave the front door, what would you greet you in the entry as you wiped your sandals on the mat?
A towering stack of unpacked boxes. (Yes, we moved in four months ago.) Two heaping laundry baskets, unsorted and unwashed. Three abandoned, unmatched shoes. Four weeks’ worth of Sunday papers, unread and unrecycled.
And me, standing sheepishly to the side, always apologizing for what’s undone.
…but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.
Help me to breathe into what’s most important – that we who live here care about things like words and soul and healing.
Remind me that I’m called to keep up with Jesus, not the Joneses. That my work is to make a home, not a house. A home that will always be more messy than magazine.
Help me to see people unfolding and not projects undone. Help me to set aside ego and externals and endless to-do lists. Help me to embrace humility always and hospitality anyway. Help me to make a Christ room in my house and my heart.
And especially this week, as my partner in parenting leaves home to work on the other side of the globe, this week when all the child care and cooking and cleaning are left to me, help my work to be full of word and soul and healing. Full of you.
You, Lord, whose home was always full of people interrupting your work (even ripping off your roof to get inside),
who got exasperated with your family at times (and even lost your temper),
who understood how tempting it would always be for the world to seduce (and not the Word to sink in),
help me to seek and find you here. At home.
With dirty dishes in the sink and dog hair on the couch and Duplos all over the floor.