I Clean My Apartment, and Find Hidden Sin

Pride is an amazing motivator. I realized this tonight, during the most chaotic 25 minutes of my week. A girlfriend was scheduled to swing by our new apartment at 5:45p.m., and I felt terrified. She’s a dear, old friend. I knew in my head that she was only dropping off my lip gloss order, and that she wouldn’t care if the house was a wreck. But, my emotions screamed in the face of my rational brain.

I parked my car at 5:21. A vague sense of the “amount of mess” already existed in my mind, drawn from a blurred memory of when I’d hastily darted hastily out the door this morning. I estimated the math in my head: More dirtiness than can be remedied in 25 minutes, I concluded. This is *not* good.

Balancing three bags of groceries, I unlocked the door by bracing my keys against my hip. Ewww! The house reeked of rotten eggs and fermenting vegetables. Crud. We forgot to take out the garbage again this morning. I flew to the kitchen and tucked my paper bags against the inside counter. Not likely she’ll see them here, I reasoned.

My normally-ordered brain now spun unproductively, like a scratched DVD. Which way to dart?! I snatched the putrid trash bag – it seemed most urgent – and my keys – I would grab the remaining grocery bags from my car on the way back from the dumpster. The walk will calm you. It’s only a couple minutes lost, I assured myself.

Trash bag in hand, I twitched around the kitchen – shoving dirty rags into the washing machine and precariously pouring our It’s-Cheaper-If-We-Buy-Enough-For-The-Entire-Year-Sized laundry detergent bottle with my spare arm. There. That’s solved.

Inspired by the soap-induced invisibility of my laundry, I squeezed an indecently-generous amount of dish soap into the sink and turned the water on high. Again with my spare arm, I joyously swept all the dishes into the mountain of bubbles. YAY. Now I look domestic, instead of lazy. ‘Oh, I was just doing the dishes, hehe...’

Then, I strode to the dumpster, feeling a surge of hopefulness that perhaps I could swing my possessions into overdue and immediate order. Purposefully ignoring the groceries in my car, (I can get them later, I had now pragmatically decided) I set a pot of water on the stove and dumped in a clump of cinnamon from the also-Costco-sized container, turning the burner on high. It’s an old trick I learned in the land of white-glove inspections: Boil cinnamon. The welcoming smell creates an atmosphere that softens judgment.

I triumphantly flew around our bedroom, flinging the sheets and covers into smoothed order, like the loyal birdies in Cinderella – except, on fast-forward. Here, I paused, and regretfully shoved the balance of our clothes behind the bed. I don’t have time. It was true. The clock read 5:40.

I suddenly smelled cinnamon. Mmm, my plot is working! Then the cinnamon smelled… funny. Oh nooooo! I rushed to the stove – and to the sizzling, burned spices, filling up my burner. My budding morale sank. Irritably, I relocated the bubbling syrup and wiped the stove, grumbling internally. I grabbed various shoes from the living room floor, kicked Ryan's gym bag into a corner, and lit a candle. Elbowing each closet door shut as I passed, I poured the shoes into the bottom of our closet, and shut several drawers that weren’t quite closed. I emerged into the hallway.

Oh my. I stared. The apartment was abruptly clean. It had worked! Not totally – I gathered the mail into a massive pile on the corner of our wee counter, and stacked the papers/books into a single heap on the desk. These are forms of clutter I can’t quickly eliminate, even while panicked. My best hope was to compact them – like I used to do with my unwanted vegetables. Smaller piles always look like less, to me – even if they are considerably more vertical.

I straightened my ponytail, and surveyed my progress. There were still dishes, now peeking through the dissolving mountain of bubbles. I would dry them until she arrived. A fresh towel from the linen closet made me feel completely competent. I even had time to put the dried blender back on its base.

Then, a knock. I greeted her with a hug, relieved on so many levels. She sweetly peered around the room, but courteously – without moving a muscle. “Oh, you have the two bedroom model? We only had a one-bedroom when we lived here—“ She was obviously hoping to peek.

“Oh, you want to see?” I acted surprised, and my conscience instantly flinched. I wish I could take that tone back. It was a lie.

Fifteen steps completed the tour – it’s a small apartment – and she affirmingly remarked, “It’s nice! Very cute.” But somehow, at that moment, the compliment didn’t feel worth it. I almost wished I had left it a mess. She would have understood, and it would have been... more real.

Sure, I had cleaned it up, for real, and sure, it’s good to have a clean apartment. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.

But, is it ever right to prioritize cleanliness above Godliness? What a dent to my soul, to let nothing else matter to me, for a full 25 minutes, other than ego and impressions. All I wanted was for her to be impressed with me. I paused my entire world for that.

Just like the Pharisees, I “loved the praise of men, more than the praise of God.” (John 12:43)

What idiocy. Maybe next time, I’ll have the presence of mind to simply light a candle and do the dishes, while screwing my head back on straight.

That would probably be my best preparation for guests.

What I Learned By Killing My Fritos

“But, the servant of the Lord must not strive…” – II Timothy 2:24

* * *

Yesterday, to ease my mid-afternoon drowsiness, I reached for my Fritos. I’m currently running low on this favorite snack, so I had to reach deeply into the bag and carefully draw out my generous handful. (I despise ending up with three broken pieces, lodged between four stiff fingers – so I intentionally start by grabbing a huge bunch, to offset the inexorable attrition.)

Predictably, halfway between the top of the bag and the napkin on my desk, several fried strips began to slip. Instinctively, I tensed, squeezing the tenuous pile. The crispy handful exploded into a shattered pile across my floor, my desk, and my trash can. Annoyed, I salvaged the few greasy bits that I could. Within seconds, the honest thought entered my head, “You shouldn’t have responded like that. Of course it wouldn’t do any good.”

What ‘it’? No, not my grumpiness. My tensing – my grasping – when something began to slip away.

Think about it. Nothing in nature responds positively to a tightening of control. A knotted rope will only get tighter, the more you tug at it. You must release it. A baby bird will become weak and eventually die, if it is hand-fed for too long. You must allow hunger and independence to fuel each other as the birdie grows – in the way that God designed.

If I had continued to gingerly, carefully, loosely hold the clump of Fritos, probably they would have made it to my desktop. But, no. I gripped tighter, and the entire pile collapsed.

As well it should. That’s how the world works. It’s how the world was made to work. God purposefully left us these innumerable, clever physical reminders of powerful spiritual truths. So, if I don’t acknowledge this particular truth, and loosen my grip on things, both physical and non-physical, then that’s my problem.

Granted, I’d could lie and say that my instinctively-grasping attitude is right; That I’m nobly ‘persevering against obstacles,’ virtuously ‘striving to achieve a goal.’ Some people make this argument. Those people say that Nature made us this way.

But, no. That’s clearly not the case. Rather, I am defying Nature – and deservedly losing. That’s all. And it’s palpably obvious, when I stop rationalizing, and simply watch the physical reality of perfectly good food crumbling in the hands of an impatient human.