The piles stare at me. Laundry baskets stacked, not with laundry, but with now-discarded, formerly priceless sticker pads, baby doll blankets, a flashlight in need of a battery, approximately 2,305 pencils of varying degrees of sharpness, and workbooks ready for recycling. The kids had gone through their closets, under their beds, and behind their dressers to unearth these archeological findings at the dig called “elementary school children’s hoard-fest.”
But now they are my hoard-fest. Now these accumulations that needed sorting, re-shelving, discarding, and sharpening are my responsibility. I can’t shoulder them. I can’t dump and examine. I just slump in a chair facing the icon wall in our dining room, facing the piles of despair, facing the meh feeling in my heart.
Living with five children and one husband and a few imaginary pets (never happening, kids, sorry) means the piles are always with us. They migrate. They multiple. They menace. I simply want someone to watch the toddler for hours so I can tidy every single last pile and corner and that one thing I’m going to get to some day, but the reality is there will simply be more.
And besides, most of the days are spent by our daughter’s bedside, her energy and spirits in need of resuscitation, her pain incessant, her hands wanting to be held. Then I’m up quickly to check on the toddler, the sweet Benny Bruno, the liveliest of all the kids, who is daring, darling, and dangerously into everything.
The piles can wait. The piles do wait. The piles stare me down as they wait.
+ + +
The outside order is reflective of inside order, or so I thought before I had piles that propagated like . . . something or other. I love tidiness and cleanliness. I appreciate a beautiful home, shop, space that speaks to my soul by its charm and winsome vibes.
The vibes of my piles are: “area hoarder died, children calling dumpster company.”
So how do I, and perhaps you, detach my sense of calm, order, and peace from the physical reality that is living. I almost wrote some qualifier about living with X number of kids or X amount of square footage or X extended family. But maybe it’s just about being alive. We are taking up space, messily or otherwise, as living breathing human beings.
I used to encourage women on the internet back in my instagram days (oh will I go back? who knows?!) that you aren’t your messy house or you aren’t your messy hair, that we could transcend our circumstances to tie our identity to that of being God’s beloved instead of a contestant for a reality home makeover show.
Now I wonder if it’s a deeper detachment. Instead of simply moving our worth from our home decor, piles, or eyebrows (seriously how do everyone else’s lie flat and look slightly tufted?) to another slot called “God,” maybe we ask God to come right into the comparison, exhaustion, and insecurity to transform it, not be a tidy swap out.
I worked on my piles a bit this week, between pulling Benny off the sourdough cinnamon rolls rising and the glass goblets he loves to elevate like a chalice right before he breaks them. But I had been praying for detachment and it felt different.
God sorted the piles with me, animating my singalong with The Water is Wide, pouring His love into my dried hands.
I am not my piles, but my piles aren’t a source of shame or frustration anymore. What are you tying your identity to? What actual or symbolic pile? Where do you want to look clearly, set down, and invite God in?
What would happen if you considered your piles as signs of life? Invite God to live with you, not to expunge all evidence of mess for a monochromatic aesthetic. Your “piles” might consist of different struggles than mine. My inner piles are doubt of loveability, worthy untethered from what I do or how I perform, and an ache to not be seen as a burden. The practice of detachment has allowed me to turn these ugly fears over to God. I used to pray to make them go away. Now I pray for Him to sort through them with me, help me understand why I feel and fear this way, and transform even the oldest scars with His blinding love.
I’m praying in a special way for freedom for you in identity questions, detachment, piles, and just whatever is burdening you.
Love and see you next week,
Nell
Oh man, this one resonates. I struggle to separate my worth (and mental state) from the cleanliness of my home. I am trying to strike a balance between “maintaining my home in a way that serves my family” and “serving my home like an idol.” I loved your words: “considered your piles as signs of life.” Lately I’ve been trying to reframe my thinking in that way by walking around my house, looking at the piles, and saying little prayers of gratitude (“toys everywhere... thank you for these babies I prayed for.” “I see this brief case on the ground... Thank you for a husband with a job that provides for us.” ) instead of feeling grumpy about the mess. But it’s still a big struggle!
another one hitting right in my gut. Gosh I love your perspective and reflecting. <3