By Mindy McAlindon
© 2008
While my mom still finds it difficult to believe, I became a very ordered person as an adult. I found joy in organizing and cleaning the house. My CDs were sorted alphabetically by type of music, my closet was organized by season, my spices were alphabetized, and even my canned veggies were sorted alphabetically by color.

Being brought up with women who put hospital cleanliness to shame, I would scrub the house as if every week were spring cleaning. Now, before you think that my house was immaculate, let me confess; I am a pack rat. I keep everything. So I had a messy drawer and few piles I tolerated.

Friends with kids would remind me that “once you have kids”, you’ll give up that cleanliness. Being a proper southern gal, I would simply smile, thinking that will never happen. Another confession: Did I mention I took a lot of “pride” in my cleaning/organizing?
When my daughter was born, I worked hard to still get all my chores done. I made sure that she and I were always neatly dressed and the house was cleaned. Even after my second daughter arrived, I managed to keep it up. It was tiring, but it seemed important and was showed my family I cared.

At 2 and 3, my girls learned to set a table, sort and put away toys, and use the Swiffer. I took satisfaction in my ability to keep things running. However, God would not so gently deliver me from my illusions of control.

The year my son was born was my annus mirabilis. One week after his arrival, my mother-in-law came to help. The girls, 3 and 4, were excited to have Nana around. On her second day, Nana attended soccer practice. She apparently was playing, went for the ball, missed and broke her ankle in three places! Nana could not only not help with the baby, but she also couldn’t help herself. So I took on the role of nurse to both Nana and the baby. I continued with my routine, but it was exhausting. My stress began to show. After 8 weeks, Nana was healed and able to return home.

We had a four week respite before taking guardianship of a troubled 16 year old relative. Tensions grew. I worked from 6am to midnight trying to keep everything going. Time needed to be spent with each child, the teenager needed extra time to know we loved her, my husband needed time with me and the house, oh yeah, the house needed cleaning.

I was starting to hit bottom. My temper, which rarely showed, was starting to flare more frequently. My girls’ simple needs were wearing on my patience. Then, my husband suggested we give my 5 year old a puppy for her birthday. Now, we already had two cats and several fish. She was a good kid and probably would take care of a dog, but the baby was sleeping through the night. I didn’t want to get up with a puppy. I calmly said, do you hate me? Do you want to know how much I can take? Well this is it! I don’t know if I intended those words for him or for God, but I had hit my limit.

My life began to spiral out of (my) control. Our teenager’s moral standards and ours conflicted. Her (justifiably) unquenchable need for attention left little for the others. The baby, still nursing, needed me almost incessantly (rightfully so). The two little girls got little of me. Naturally, their behavior started to slip. Laundry was getting done prn. Dinner, which I enjoyed, became a burdensome chore. The house was only surface clean. My bedroom became the place I hid everything. When guests came, anything extraneous went into my bedroom. Dirty laundry? My bathroom. Piles of papers? In a basket in the corner. Bills to pay? On my night stand. Suitcases from our trip two weeks ago? Next to the bed. I began not to care anymore. I just wanted to stay afloat.

I fell to my knees and cried out. It took every ounce of strength I had to admit I was maxed out, emotionally, physically, mentally. I could not handle any more. I knew God loved me and cared about every aspect of my life. We were immensely blessed with friends and family, but I wasn’t feeling the love. I was in two Bible studies, but my heart wasn’t. I felt betrayed. I took in my mother-in-law and this teenager and all I had gotten was grief. I had tried making the best of the situation, but I was failing.

Then, God brought me to a verse: Better a dry crust with peace and quiet, than a house full of feasting with strife. Pr 17:1 (NIV). This verse spoke to my very essence. That was it. My house was not honoring God. I had done the right things, but my heart was not chasing God, my being no longer relied on Him for sustenance and renewal. My heart leapt for joy; even in my sin, God was providing me with a solution.

Shortly thereafter, my husband and I came to an agreement. We needed to put God back in charge of our house. We prayed for guidance and direction. God blessed us with answers. We drew a line in the sand and said “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” Things got better, slowly, but they got better. Our lives were back on track. Oh, even now I struggle with some of the habits I got into during that “growth year”, but I know that God will always gently lead me back – as long as I listen! We did get my daughter that puppy and she has done a fantastic job of caring for it. My house, yes, it’s back to being clean and organized, but it doesn’t always stay that way and I’m OK with that. I tell myself that someday I will have all the time I want to clean and will wish I had little fingerprints to fret over.

Ok, one last confession: my husband graciously takes my children out for an entire day, about 4 times a year. Not so I can relax or go to the spa or hang with friends. No, I’m embarrassed to say, it’s so I can clean and organize the house. It really does bring me JOY – and restores a little sanity to my insane, yet wonderful life.