The Fall Cleaner

There’s something about the coming of cold weather that makes me want to clean. I know that spring is supposed to be THE time of year for a thorough undertaking of all industrious homemaking, but it’s just not for me. In the spring I just want to relax and enjoy the changing of the season. In the fall… I want to clean.

I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s the unconscious knowledge that I will be spending more time in my place of habitation. Or perhaps it’s simply the change of light that occurs in fall, but I notice dirt, dust, disorganization and general “untidiness” much more at this time of year than in the spring or summer.

Now I’m not really much of a studious “cleaner” in the first place. I may have been in the past, but years of combining full time school with full time work, then two jobs at one time, etc etc, have given me a bit of a lighter hand at housework.

My… that was a diplomatic turn of phrase, wasn’t it? Truth be told, it just means that I leave a lot of dust and dirt to fend for itself in my house. It doesn’t bother me, so I don’t bother it. Kind of like the cat that lives next door. As long as it isn’t behind my car when I’m trying to back out of the driveway, he can pretend that my yard is his territory as much as he likes. I won’t complain.

This “lighter hand” allows me to leave all sorts of jobs unfinished for months. Cleaning the backsplash behind the sink. Scrubbing the cupboard doors. Wiping out the egg trays in the refrigerator. Dusting the “fancy” serving plates on the highest shelf. And anything to do with hauling out large appliances in order to clean behind them. Oh ya… and cleaning the oven and those under-the-burner thing-a-ma-giggies. All of that dirt is left to its own devices, for the most part. Except in the fall.

In the fall, I get a specific kind of itch that can only be scratched by scraping bits of soap and grease scum off the backsplash, or wondering what kind of crumb that is in the egg tray, or seeing my husband’s dresser drawers tidy and expertly folded for the first time in about 8 months. And these itches NEED to be scratched. No amount of chocolate treat (I adore Lowney’s Bridge Mix!), or TV show (Pan Am, So You Think You Can Dance, anything SciFi) or online game (W.O.W.) can measure up to a couple of hours of serious cleaning and re-organizing.

In the spring and summer I can make up all kinds of excuses for not cleaning… most of them being “I’m SO tired”,  “I need to take my mind off work” and “just this one more show… I promise”, but in the fall, my excuses go the other way around. “I’m just going to throw this last batch in the washer and put away the dishes, and then I’ll come watch TV with you, k? Oh… and I have to put away the groceries. Well… I should also gather that bag for the goodwill too before I forget. And can you pick up that stuff to patch up the wall in the bathroom? I’m going to spackle that on Sunday. And maybe put in a new mail slot. The old one’s letting the cold in.”

Now, it would be all fine and dandy if it were just me that was affected by these irksome itches. Not so. For, when I begin to itch, I don’t really understand what it is that I’m feeling (it happens SO rarely during the rest of the year). So instead of just cleaning and getting the itch scratched, I start to get irritated at all sorts of things that most of the year go by unnoticed and happily unattended to. That dust and dirt, for example… and my husband’s untidy dresser drawers, and the bathroom cupboard that won’t close because the towels aren’t folded small enough, and the kitchen drawer that never seems to have a good supply of washcloths!

All of these become the “burrs in my coat” as it were, making me so uncomfortable that I start snapping and snarling and searching for what new thing my husband MUST be doing wrong that is making me so mad! Basically, until I finally figure out what it is that is irritating me so much, I become miserable to live with. Only after a breakdown/blow-out/blow-up, whatever you want to call it, do I finally realize that it is Fall again, and only one thing will make me truly happy… a clean house! And there’s only one person who can clean it… me!

(Wow, it sounds like I’m painting myself as a super hero doesn’t it? Who can clean up super-scum with a single swipe, or dust whole shelves with one mighty twirl, or fold laundry at the speed of the egg-timer… FALL-CLEANER can!)

So here we are, in fall again, and at the beginning of my yearly foray into cleanliness. The blow-up/out/in behind me, my husband compensated for being snarled at, and one dresser and one cupboard expertly folded, the FALL-CLEANER cleans on! On, CLEANER, on!

Let my life be a testament to you, my God. Let my face and my body and my words declare my dependence on you. May you lift me above, beyond these feelings... just for a time. Then ,with My Love beside me, help me to allow these feelings to take over, dwelling, living within them until the felt sharpness of their jabs begin to fade, and only trust in you remains.

Another thing....

OK.

So I'm going along with my day... two long meetings out of the way, trying to re-focus on what I need to accomplish before I can call it a day... and all of the sudden my momentum got completely derailed! The door to my office closes, with someone besides me on the inside of that door, and a hushed conversation ensues. All of the sudden a carrot dangles before my face taunting me to believe that it is possible... very barely possible, but possible nonetheless, to reach it.

After her brief words and shock and a stuttered response on my side, we concluded our conversation over with a hug. I vowed internally to put it aside... not think about it... not let my thoughts dwell on the possibilities (for the ability for me to reach the carrot is not within my control), but the spoken words keep coming back. They lie at the edge of my consciousness... begging for attention.

So here I am, giving them all the attention that I am allowed... a few vague words and expressed consternation.

Congratulations!

Just a quick note of congratulations to my sister Kirsten Glidden!!!

She is graduating this weekend in Edmonton with a three year degree!

Congratulations Kirsten! You did it, and we are all soooooo proud of you and your accomplishments!!!

Mike, Laura and all the rest!

Have you ever been in a dark, dark room and lit a single candle?
I did that recently.

During a recent staff meeting we were encouraged to take an hour for private prayer… and were given the text of John 1:1-9, and a candle. Wanting to ensure my privacy I made my way downstairs, and into the fireside room, a room that is quite large, large enough to fit about 120 people around tables. It was the darkest room I could think of without going into a closet. I sat down at one end of the room, took my candle in one hand, and lit it. At once I was amazed at two things: the brightness of the light as I held it in my hand, and the darkness of the room surrounding it.

When I was holding the candle… with it only a foot or two from my eyes, the room around was almost invisible. The light so affected my eyes that I could only see a few feet around me, so bright was that candle, so strongly it took over my vision and allowed me to see only the light. Close to the candle, it was warm and hopeful… but as I placed it on the ground and walked further and further away from it’s warmth... beyond the edges of the circle of its light, darkness overtook me. The darkness overtook me and I was alone at the opposite end of the room in what looked and felt like a place of hopelessness and despair.

It might sound crazy to you. Why all this talk of despair and hopelessness? It’s only the darkness of the room. And yet that is what I felt. Those were the emotions that had been gnawing away at the edges of my consciousness that day and the whole week before. In the darkness I could only see the poverty of my life, the fear and sadness in my heart and the weariness of my eyes. Although I could see the beckoning light at the other end of the room, there was an odd desire to remain in the darkness… to remain in my place of sadness and fear, and take up residence there. But the candle remained.

As I drew closer to the beginning of its circle of influence I found that remaining on the outside of that light was not enough. I longed to move closer. I longed to move to where I could really feel the warmth of it’s light. The edges of the circle were not enough… the mid-point leading to the candle was not enough. Although I knew that my vision would be changed, that I would not be able to see the darkness of the room if I moved any closer, still the candle drew me to it.

Lifting it up, holding it in my hand, my face warmed by it’s heat, my face illuminated by it’s light… I didn’t want my hour of prayer to end. I wanted to stay with my light. But my time was up, and so, not wanting to extinguish the light, I walked carefully to the stairs and gingerly made my way back to the staff room. I thought that maybe I would be thought of as silly, as sentimental to still have my candle lit… but when I arrived I was stunned to see that not one other person extinguished their candle.

Once we had tasted the power and peace of its light, not one of us could be parted from it.

Screw-ups

Is there anything more frustrating that listening to things coming out of your mouth, and not having the ability to either reel them back in or stop yourself from saying even more to make it worse! I found myself saying something that implied something totally different than what I intended. And I started to think that shutting up would be better than trying to explain.

I wanted to correct a teaching that spoke the "maleness" of God while not speaking of the 'femaleness' of God.

I wanted to remind them how both male AND female are made in the image of God. I wanted to say how seeing your husband as being made in the image of God or seeing your wife as being made in the image of God changes how we should relate to each other in the intimacy of marriage.

Seeing my husband as God's creation, and seeing his best qualities as portraying a little of the goodness of God, changes how I view him, how I interact with him, how I treat him in everything from a disagreement to making decisions, to our interactions in the intimacy of the bedroom.

Thus, seeing one's wife as being made in the image of God, as portraying, in her best qualities, the goodness of God, his nurture, his wisdom, his motherly love, changes the way he treats her, respects her, interacts with her inside and outside the marital bedchamber.

Stating, or even implying by omission, that the image of God rests more heavily in one sex than the other is a disservice to both men and women. It devalues one over the other, and creates a brokenness in relationship that can not be easily overcome.. Neither is it biblically correct.

But alas, my comments came out sounding like I was preaching the equality of the sexes... implying the right to leadership, the neutralness of marital roles, etc. As soon as I said the word "equality" I knew that I wasn't going to be able to reverse the images that were forming in thier heads... that I couldn't go back to the moment before that word was spoken. It was not what I intended to say, nor what I meant to imply (no matter what I personally believe). It was specifically the respect of one's spouse, whether male nor female, grounded in respect for God, that I wanted to address.

Ah.... mispoken words and unguarded eyes... sighs that are too loud and shoulders that slump. Despite our best intentions to keep our thoughts and feelings under guard, we betray ourselves at every turn.

(sigh)

Back to goodness...

My favorite book, Unless by Carol Sheilds, talks about "goodness". Wondering what it is, what makes a person good, if anyone truly can be good. Throughout the book a mother is trying to figure out why her daughter left school, broke up with her boyfriend, and began to live in a shelter in downtown Toronto begging for pennies on the street corner at Bathurst and Bloor. While I won't give away the conclusion, this young woman was herself struggling with that question, wondering if there was any goodness left in the world, and ironically, it was a traumatic event, in which she played the heroine which proved that she, herself, possessed a modicum of that elusive quality.

Do I have any true motive? Any pure motive for goodness? Most of what I do is driven by a need to be valued, by a need to matter, to be loved. While healing through a program called Freedom Session has lifted the burden of much of these needs off of my shoulders, still I fight the demon of people-pleasing, of doing anything I can not to be rejected, not to be thought ill of, the demon of fighting against perceived-failure.

Let me rest in the goodness of you, God. Let me rest in the knowledge that your goodness allows you to love me even when I screw up, even when I'm not good enough, even when I fail... and most of all when I am not truthful, hiding my genuine being from others, because of my fear of perceived-failure.

Why is that young woman at Bathurst and Bloor? A failure to recognize that the only true goodness belongs to God... and that only a deep connection to him will allow us to fully let goodness dwell within our hearts.