Let Go of the Dyson.

When things feel out of control, I clean.

When terrible things happen in this world, when no hope seems to be found, I clean. When the budget is running bumpy, when I’m not confident in my parenting, when a child is moving in a questionable direction, I clean. It’s the one thing I can do to make the exterior appear in order when everything is spinning out of control slightly underneath the surface.

In elementary school, Maya invited a friend over to play while the Mom stayed and  interviewed me.  She inspected my stove top and asked me a thousand questions about my life, my beliefs and in the end, passing her rigorous test, she allowed daughter to return unsupervised.  That has haunted me for so long  Just because the surface appears safe, who was she to judge my sanity, my safety, my beliefs? Every time I wipe down my stove top I think of her and grimace. Ultimately, I am a safe choice for playdates, but if her gauge of safety is a clean stovetop, I feel mightily afraid for her daughter.

When my mom was still at home, undergoing chemo, during the worst of her days, I’d show up Dyson in hand.  Seriously.  Instead of laying with her, holding her hand, whispering comforting words, I vacuumed and dusted.  How did that feel from her perspective?  Did she feel offended that I thought her home was simply not clean enough? Did she simply desire my company? Things I missed while gripping the Dyson.

I fight a shift in perspective daily, sometimes minute by minute, to clean simply for joy, heck, to live simply for joy….working as if working for God. Not because He dictates it, but because He has blessed me with much and I feel it’s the one small way I can show thanks.  But He knows the deeper need, the grime right under the surface.  He prompts me to Be Still…chatting like a good, good father, but in this moment, I’m frantic.  For what? The world feels so out of control, the budget isn’t where I want it,  I question my parenting, He knows.  Be still, He says.  Listen, He prompts.  Step away from the Dyson and sit with me.  And when I do, He breaks my fragile heart with the straight scoop.  I am loved. I am not defined by how well I clean, how well my kids perform, or even by the darkness in this world.  I am a light. I have great purpose and if I’m gripping too tightly to the Dyson, my hands aren’t open for something bigger.  Let it go, He says.  I know exactly what this world needs, but they must let go of the Dyson.