The Gospel Of Housekeeping

I’m a clean freak. I came by it honestly - thanks Dad - and I love to take care of my home. If one of my friends was ever to vent about having received a vacuum cleaner as an anniversary gift, I’m the type who would lean forward and ask “What kind?!” Last December, I spent my Christmas and birthday cash on a dumpster rental to better tackle the post-Christmas chaos. The bliss from that declutter carried me for weeks. And is there ANYTHING that brings more warm fuzzies than sitting in the quiet, candle-lit house at night as the dishwasher gently hums? Probably not this side of heaven. 

However, if I’m not vigilant, the home that I desire to be a peaceful haven for my family will instead become a silent, orderly tomb. Not much is ever out of place in a mausoleum, on account of all the people living there being dead. On the other hand, people who are not dead sometimes make a mess. Which brings me to my main point: as Christians, we are called to practice hospitality. And hospitality very often involves inviting people into your home. And these people will come wearing shoes that will have to be piled by the back door, or *gasp* worn into your living room. They’ll come with keys to set on your end tables and jackets to toss over the back of your couch. They’ll come with diaper bags to set in the corner (the corner you made sure to clean all your items out of just minutes earlier) because where else are they going to set them? And if your church, like ours, also very much embraces the be-fruitful-and-multiply mandate, they will come with children. 

A verse that I, in the true evangelical way, often take out of context to fit my own unique circumstances, albeit with with the best of intentions, is found in 1 Chronicles 21:

Then the angel of the Lord told Gad to instruct David to go up and build an altar to the Lord on the threshing floor of Araunah the Jebusite. So David went up to do what the Lord had commanded him through Gad. Araunah, who was busy threshing wheat at the time, turned and saw the angel there. His four sons, who were with him, ran away and hid. When Araunah saw David approaching, he left his threshing floor and bowed before David with his face to the ground.

David said to Araunah, “Let me buy this threshing floor from you at its full price. Then I will build an altar to the Lord there, so that he will stop the plague.”

“Take it, my lord the king, and use it as you wish,” Araunah said to David. “I will give the oxen for the burnt offerings, and the threshing boards for wood to build a fire on the altar, and the wheat for the grain offering. I will give it all to you.”

But King David replied to Araunah, “No, I insist on buying it for the full price. I will not take what is yours and give it to the Lord. I will not present burnt offerings that have cost me nothing!” So David gave Araunah 600 pieces of gold in payment for the threshing floor. (1 Chronicles 21:18-25, NLT)

 I will not present burnt offerings that have cost me nothing. 

If we do believe, as we ought, that every act of service to a brother or sister in Christ is actually an offering to the Lord, this verse is highly pertinent . I will not offer hospitality that costs me nothing. And, friends, there are some seasons where the cost is felt more than others. Press in. Do it anyway.

My pursuit of domestic neatness and beauty is my favorite hobby. It makes the repetitive domestic tasks that come along with a husband, four children and a home a joy instead of a drag. But unchecked, it quickly becomes one of the “little foxes” that could keep my family from living the kind of full and generous life that God desires for us. If we accept the idea that the home is an altar where acts of service can be offered up to God, we have to also be aware that it can, when twisted, become an altar to idols as well. And if I’m not vigilant, our home becomes an altar to the idols of pride, selfishness, and the Joanna Gaines aesthetic. Don’t get me wrong: it’s not inherently idolatrous to like something a lot, but it’s foolish to not recognize the potential of idolatry where it legitimately exists. And there is HUGE idolatry potential for me when it comes to my home. After all, I spend like 92% of my life there. So imagine, if you can, a place where the house has become a god. We housewives are the high priestesses of course. The carpets, flat surfaces, and closets are the altars where worship is offered up, and the families are the miserable temple slaves that suffer under all this tyranny. Houses, as it turns out, are wonderful tools and servants, but cruel and thankless gods.

Growing up, there was a family in our church that had eight children. They hosted the lifegroup we belonged to. There were 14 kids and 6 adults in that lifegroup. I’m sure we destroyed her house. I’m sure we broke things and stained things and left paper plates in a far away recess of her backyard that she had to hike over and pick up after we left. But I don’t remember ever seeing Kelly looking stressed about it. I want to be like that. 

My mom raised all of her children faithfully. My youngest sister moved out just a few years ago. I, as a young mom, have often consoled myself in cluttered seasons with the following thought: “When all these kids are older, I am going to throw ALL of these ugly toys away.” If you were to walk into my parents’ empty-nest-er, finally kid-free living room, do you know what you’d see? Not a serene, blissfully grown-up living area. Not a pristine sea of beige and grasscloth. Not the latest edition of Magnolia on an otherwise empty coffee table, and a chunky knit blanket carelessly-but-not-carelessly tossed over the arm of a white - yes, white - chair. Instead, you’d see trains. Lots of plastic, colorful, noisy, battery-operated trains. Because my kids love those trains, and they love my kids, and that’s hospitality. That’s offering a costly gift to the Lord, by way of a sticky faced toddler who loves Thomas the Tank Engine. I want to be like that.

The way to become the older woman that you want to be some day is by doing the things she does…now. For me, personally, I have to repeat to myself, “This is God’s house. That’s God’s carpet. Those are God’s walls, and I was the one dumb enough to paint them white. That’s God’s sliding door that leads to God’s backyard, and it’s God’s hot air that’s getting into the house every time it gets left standing open. That’s God’s fridge, and those are God’s snacks inside, and I’m going to use God’s cleaning solution later to get the sticky residue from chubby little fingers (also God’s) off of the handle.”

So don’t sweep the floors with the subconscious hope that if everyone is very, very good, you won’t have to do it again very soon.

Sweep them with the joyful expectation of being anointed with crumbs from the blessing of good food, dropped from the plates of children who are good gifts from a good Father. Pull the patio door shut in full expectation that small, probably very dirty, hands will soon pull it open again. And bless the stream of hot air that enters your house when they do, because God sends the sun and the rain and everything else at just the right time, and don’t waste an opportunity to also praise Him for air conditioning. Wipe the toothpaste off the bathroom counter with gratitude for developing motor skills and a side of thankfulness that those little kids aren’t fully grown just yet - because I’ve been told by quite a few sweet old ladies that I’ll miss that annoying toothpaste scum a whole lot when they are.

My loving encouragement to the ladies who stress out at the thought of having a big group of rowdy young families over: get over it. And keep getting over it, preferably at least a few times a month (or week, if you’re me). Get over it as often as you have to. Get over it as you wash windows that you know are gonna be covered with finger prints again in about 45 minutes. Get over it by reminding yourself that the goal of sweeping the floors is not that they stay clean for the rest of time if everyone around you would just do their part and never drop another crumb. Get over it by filling your home with dear friends who add so much richness to your life. What seems like a heavy burden to drag to the cross today won’t even feel important enough to mention later if you devote yourself to faithfully getting over it. 

I’m proud to report that after five diligent years, I’ve gotten about halfway over it, and the blessings that have poured into our home since my journey began are too many to count. Friends and family and memories and joy and laughter. Things that fill your soul up much more than a quiet, empty, pristine home that hasn’t been filled with the beautiful mess that comes with having living, human friends. 

The joy of loving the work of making your house a welcoming and clean space is that, if you play your cards right, you might never run out of it. Praise God.