“Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow” Psalm 51:7.

When I was a newlywed I saw myself as a domestic goddess in the making. My genes confirmed such visions. My mom was a culinary diva; my dad was a card-carrying neat freak with zero tolerance for anything dirty, dusty, out of place, or crooked. I grew up in a home with a spotless kitchen and shiny hardwood floors, laden with delicious meals. No matter the fact that in my childhood home we actually had a housekeeper. I proudly marched into my own home with my DNA in hand, expecting to exercise and exhibit the same exquisite combination of virtue.  

In fact, in Mike’s and my first tiny one bedroom apartment, I never gave dirt or dust time to settle, nor did we make a habit of hosting spiders. Even the back of my toilet received my constant attention. But as houses got bigger, and children entered the world, making it their mission in life to destroy all order and domestic integrity, keeping a clean house became impossible. Eventually, an observable shift fell upon the landscape of our house. Sadly, I began to realize that all I actually inherited from my dad were his looks, a scant head of hair, and a dash of artistic flair. My mom, however, handed down other unexpected gifts, one of which is a strong proclivity towards messiness.

Although Mike is nowhere as close to OCD as my father, I’m sure they would both agree on Mike’s favorite motto: “There is a place for everything, and everything has its place.” In my opinion, that annoying string of words has no place in my home. (If it did, it would accumulate dust or get lost somewhere, anyway.) Yet somehow, Mike’s patience with my increasing lack of motivation to keep our house clean has persevered through the years. When our littles roamed through our house 24/7, he was great about helping me out when called upon. He has shown up for me and filled in many domestic gaps during bouts of depression and even during selfish fits of laziness. But in the last few years, I must admit, this messy problem was becoming more and more of an issue. Our white-tile hallway constantly formed drifts of a mixture of dog hair and dirt in its corners. Turning on a ceiling fan meant activating a dust shower. The back of my toilets hardly knew me.  

Last year, at about the same time I began making my bed every day, both Mike and I came to the end of our ropes with the impossibility of keeping this house of ours clean. His patience was waning (rightfully so), and my sanity, suffering. After weighing in on the emotional cost of a dirty house and the actual monetary cost of hiring a cleaning lady, we concluded that getting help was not only reasonable, but essential. 

Throughout this year, my amazing Brenda has proven herself to be a welcomed and trusted employee. I wish she could come more often. But for now, I can afford for her to come just enough to keep mold from birthing in our bathrooms, dust from weighing down our ceiling fans, dust drifts from forming in the hallway, and spiders setting up shop in the corners of our rooms. And as it turns out, every time she comes, my well-being affirms that she is worth every penny. But I must admit that the first few months of her presence in my house were hard on me. 

The first day Brenda came, I welcomed her with an inward shame that didn’t want her in my home, masked by a kind, outward smile that desperately wanted, needed her there. With hesitation, I escorted her to my room as I mentally took inventory of my belongings and secretly worried about leaving a total stranger in the most sacred room of my home. I forced myself to let go of my concerns and let her do her work. I found my way downstairs and sank into my favorite loveseat, propping my legs up on the ottoman. I was surrounded by natural light and books aplenty. Usually, this favorite spot would usher peace in my soul and invite spiritual growth. But on that day, instead of picking up a book to stimulate my brain and take my mind off of what was going on upstairs, all I could do was stare at them, at space, at nothing. I shrunk in embarrassment as I heard the water running and endless scrubbing. The thought of how my room and its adjacent bathroom showed visible signs of neglect made me feel naked and vulnerable. The reality of my need for help exposed and magnified my weakness and laziness. I went up several times to check on her progress and offer her water, even as I internally rebuked myself, and kept being tempted to tell her to go home and let me finish her work.  

But I knew that if I dismissed her I would fall into a heap, ugly-cry staring, paralyzed at the accumulated dog hair and dust bunnies. Like an evil gremlin, the dirt and grime would continue to mock me and mercilessly remind me of my shameful situation. 

I kept telling myself, This is just a simple exchange. I give her money, and she does for me what I do not want to do. People do this all the time! Like so many people in this world, I choose to work doing something else that I like in order to pay others to do something I would rather not do (or can’t do). I wondered, why is it that I don’t feel any shame when I sit at a restaurant and pay someone else to make my food and bring it to me when I am perfectly capable of making my own delicious food? I do it all the time. Yet I’m flooded with guilt when it comes to paying someone to clean my house. 

As I sat there in my literal filth, it occurred to me that my feelings were uncovering something much deeper within myself. 

I think this is oftentimes how I feel when I approach God. I’m painfully aware, as I stroll through life, of the grime and filth that I let accumulate in my heart. Shamed by its presence, I try to ignore it and carry on just as I did with the mess in my house. The weight of my sin, however, becomes heavy when suddenly, a spider or a crumb appears and opens my eyes to the countless crumbs and the spider-villa that was somehow built right before my eyes. I finally recognize and admit that I need help. But it’s hard to intentionally open my door, welcome Christ in, and expose my selfishness, neglect, and laziness. Sometimes, I’d rather sit in my filth than invite Him in to take a look at every nook and cranny of my being and accept the fact that He can—He has—wiped it all clean. Claiming such a gift takes great humility. Having access to that kind of joy feels impossible. Having my heart-home wiped clean by His sacrificial love requires a faith that I oftentimes lack.  

At least I pay Brenda for her hard work. But when it comes to going through the rhythms of prayer, repentance and acceptance of His gift of sanctification, it feels like scrubbing myself clean through good works would be easier to do than have to face Him, let Him in, and accept His free gift of forgiveness. Accepting conviction, letting go of shame, and welcoming the awe of His love does not come naturally to me. My tendency would be to show up at the foot of the cross in shame, regretting that I had not done all (or at least some of) the work myself. The discomfort of it all makes me want to kick Him out of my life and tell Him, “Nevermind, I’ll take care of it.” I got myself into this mess—I’ll get myself out of it. As if.

We are uncomfortable letting anyone—the help, our friends, spouses, even God—get even a glimpse of our imperfection, any imperfection. Our dirtiness, once we see it, feels shameful, and concealing it becomes priority. We don’t want to allow our Savior to enter our heart-home and see what is going on inside, much less let Him wipe it clean, when it feels like we should be the ones getting our act together. He sees it. But His love is greater than our sin. His forgiveness is more perfect than our work. 

Nowadays, I absolutely love it when Brenda comes over to clean my house, not just because she leaves it looking and smelling beautifully clean, but because now, her presence, instead of reminding me of my failures, or bullying me into shame, reminds me of the precious, undeserved gift of my Savior. I realize that I am not only ready, but eager, to invite Christ to enter and heal my mess. I have a new opportunity to ask if any webs of resentment have set up shop in the corners of my heart. Has any jealousy built up in my mind? Is anger weighing down my spirit? I say, “Lord, show me, is there any dirt and grime that I may have missed that I need to give to you?” 

My clean house is a huge bonus that I am grateful I can afford. My clean heart is a gift that He paid for, and which I am grateful beyond words to have received.