My house is not messy. It is well loved.
This table with paint smears and squished grapes, pock marked by forks – this table tells of fables fashioned by four year old fingers. It speaks of meals eaten together, children at home. My table is not messy. It tells tales of joy.
This floor with mud tracks and dump trucks arrayed underfoot – this floor speaks of a treasure found in the yard and brought in to share with wonder, of cities built and leveled, of civilizations conquered. My floor is not messy. It is the evidence of exploration.
This kitchen with breadcrusts and half drunk cups of water, with pots stacked high in the drying rack, sink stacked high with dishes awaiting their turn in the dishwasher – it speaks of meals together, friends invited, bodies nourished. My kitchen is not messy. It is a hearth of hospitality.
This garden with knee-high grass and a proliferation of plastic toys, with overgrown bushes and its smattering of barely-tended vegetables – this garden speaks of more time spent ho-ho-hoing than hoe-hoe-hoeing. It speaks of play. It speaks of “helpers” whose help needs much help. My garden is not messy. It is cultivating people.
This living room with pillows on the floor, grime marks on the window, books strewn in every corner – it speaks of reading forts and high adventure. My living room is not messy. It is a room we live and love in.
Another Monday morning brings another survey of my home. My eyes see mess, my brain processes it with panic: fix it! you’re failing!
But another Monday brings another week of experience in learning to read the story told by the debris: this is the story of life. My house is not messy, it is well loved, and people are welcome to LIVE here. Messy people with messy lives are welcome on our messy couch. Messy stories are welcome in our messy kitchen. Your mess is welcome here, because in this house you are not messy, you are well loved.