God of the sweeping
Or what woman having ten coins and losing one would not light a lamp and sweep the house, searching carefully until she finds it? And when she does find it, she calls together her friends and neighbors and says to them, “Rejoice with me because I have found the coin that I lost.” In just the same way, I tell you, there will be rejoicing among the angels of God over one sinner who repents.
Luke 15: 8-10
Every night I take the broom in hand, both of us worn and tired but still working. As I stretch out arms to reach the bristles’ brush, the steady rhythm comes back easy, drag of dirt across familiar floor. Every day it slides the same: crumbs, hair, dust, food all piled into tidy heaps left waiting for the bin. One swift dump, then goodbye. But making clean is holy work – refreshing for another day, forgiving what is past and gone. To gather, to release and then repeat makes way, always for one day more. I know the time it takes, the pattern of the pulling corners into center, how to turn and switch the broom’s direction when the grit is stubborn. Sometimes I even do my sweeping in the dark when all the world’s asleep. Only when I lose the precious slipped under couch, rolled into corner dark or simply disappeared – then only do I blaze the lights, look steady as I clean, search focused on the finding, knowing work that will not fail. But if I did not sweep each day, memorize these floors, their stains and scuffs, then I could not seek what’s lost when it’s the coin that matters most. So thus it was and always must it be: pull creaky closet door to find old broom, swish brush, brush swish reach pull, pull reach and then again to rest.