A few years ago, we were visiting a family for the first time. As we sat and talked, something was troubling me, but I could not put my finger on what it was: everything in the home—I should say, estate—was perfect. A garden without weeds, a house in perfect order, a meal with no mess somehow because all pots and pans had already been washed and put away before we sat down to eat it! Yet, something about the environment seemed sterile and stiff to Clay and me and to our children. The children themselves seemed uncomfortable; almost formal in some way, and seemed afraid to move out of the context of "reserved politeness." The atmosphere felt sterile, with an overhanging air of performance and judgment. The mom repeated three times as we were talking, "I am so exhausted, all the time!"
We talked later about the strange atmosphere of stress and strain, even in the midst of perfect order, because it was all so right and yet felt so wrong.
There seemed to be form without art or life.
I am not condemning order. How i love it, actually! And the feeling wasn’t the fault of high ideals, either. But if the ideals we hold focus on performance and not heart, all will be lost. And that is what it felt like to all of us while we were visiting this family— frankly, we even felt a subtle pressure to perform and not say the wrong thing while!
What an attitude we sometimes carry about God in our hearts, as though He is some kind of angry old man, terminally disappointed in us for not being more perfect. He is not crossing his arms, looking scornfully down at us, saying, "Well, I was going to encourage you today and tell you how much I love you. But I can't--look at that pile on your desk, that towering pile of laundry, all undone! I suspect you must be doing something wrong, because you are laughing too much today!"
Instead He is saying, "Woohoo! You sat with your child and watched Me paint a sunset! You were patient with that spilled milk and fuss one more time--you listened to that weepy teen and didn't even get correct him, even though you were exhausted! You are my precious one and I love that you are doing your best. I love you. I am with you, I am proud of you for keeping at it!"
A home is a place of life filled by a mother whose life is contagious because of her sparkle in the midst of messes, her laughter in the midst of duty, her song pervading the whole place--the music, feasts, art, and joy of life--flowing out of a heart that has found this joy in her God.
"To build a home of ideals means a life of sacrifice. It means a lot of work, and it's never going to be over. These ideals don't come easily to anyone; they come through battle. It's an illusion to think that building a place of beauty ever happens naturally to anyone; it happens little by little ... through hard work ... when we cultivate our souls, our kids will have something to draw from .. the house with the life of God isn't a perfect house, it's a redeemed house! It's not a home without sin, or without messes or without spilled milk, but we redeem one more moment, in the joy of living with Him, and that moment becomes a memory, an unspoken message that lasts for life... " Mission of Motherhood
