Messy Houses

It was around 1 p.m. on a Wednesday. I opened my front door, dropped my suitcase at my feet and did a quick survey of the house, my eyelids heavy from a treacherous 24 hours of delayed flights and missed connections. Greeted only by a dog, I expected a quiet house as everyone was well into their normal routines of work and school and daycare. As I stood there, glad to be home, I noticed the mess.

The graphite colored tiles of the entry way were littered with pine needles and soft remembrances of muddy shoes. There was unopened mail on the table. I walked toward the living room to find a basket of toys strewn about, pinks and purples of barbie accessories mixed with blues and oranges of hot wheels tracks. My eyes soaked up the blankets and pajamas left on the couch and I see the dishes in the sink, noticing the knife used to likely make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunchboxes. A Lego city was constructed on the kitchen table. Joey told me they had made nachos for dinner the night before, and I smiled when I saw the sheet pan in the dishwasher. Elsie’s library book was on the coffee table, the corner eaten off by the dog, a crisis I talked her down from via Facetime just yesterday.

I started unpacking my bags, and found myself smiling.

People live here. They like, really live here. The day-old-artifacts I found myself digging for are proof that memories were made. The mud brought in from outside caked off of rainbow colored rainboots and the pine needles fell off a little boy’s sweatshirt as he artfully crafted a campfire with his dad. The random bike helmet by the front door signaled to me “best skid” contests were executed and the family cheered each other on as kids bombed their bikes down the driveway hill.

The dishes in the sink means meals were enjoyed and the Legos on the table means quality time was spent and conversations happened over the construction of super trucks and crazy boats and goofy houses. The blankets on the couch means as much as my family missed me, they spent time feeling warm and and safe, snuggled on the couch and as they watched tv together. The dog-eaten-book was a metaphor for we will figure out whatever happens. Actually, this whole house quietly repeats that to me as I continue to move through it.

Life happens and it is messy. It happens right there, in the middle of the messes actually, some we create and some we observe. Some messes get cleaned up, and some we allow to stick around for awhile and that’s all okay. All of it.

Now I’m not saying I don’t love a sparkling clean house because I do. What I am saying is sometimes we need to be our own archeologist - we need dig into the mess, find out why it was made, understand what it means and sometimes we’ll uncover something really special.