Friday Homemaking

I love Fridays. Some people look forward to Friday as the last day of the work or school week, or as pay day, or date night. For me, Friday is more than just the precursor to the weekend. Friday is my cleaning day, the day I restore our home to its proper state of orderly cleanliness.

I used to divide up my weekly chores between days - I would vacuum on Wednesday, clean the bathrooms on Friday, and wash the floors on Saturday mornings. Over a year ago, I found a much more gratifying system that allows me one evening to relax in the luxury of a clean home. Besides accomplishing the week's major tasks in a half day's work, Friday cleaning also ensures that our home is ready for weekend guests (a quick tidy of toys and dishes is much easier than attempting to polish every room in a last minute scramble). And on the weekends we spend visiting family, I know that I will return to a peaceful place of reasonably sanitary rest.

My routine begins during Friday morning chore time, when Donny helps me pick up toys, baskets, and small furniture off the floor. Then I roll out my Kenmore Progressive, plug in to the kitchen outlet, and commence vacuuming. One advantage to living in 850 square feet is the ability to vacuum every corner of our home without changing power outlets! The boys like to help me use the floor tool in the bathrooms and kitchen. (They also like to operate the powerhead on the rug, but safety concerns and my own impatience with the inefficiency of toddler vacuuming usually prevent this from happening.)

I tend to save the dining room, with its abundance of crumbs, for last. I am convinced that the genius who invented carpeted dining rooms never had children. Any parent would surely realize that even shabby schoolhouse linoleum - that wipes clean with a damp rag - would be preferable to scrubbing spilled milk, spaghetti sauce, and pureed sweet potatoes out of chocolate mousse colored carpet. And on that note, I must say that I am very thankful, especially since I have no choice in the matter, to have brown - or "chocolate mousse" - carpets rather than white, beige, or any other easily stained color. Should I happen to spill tea or, say, apple pie filling, on this rug, no one will be the wiser.

Later, during naptime, I listen to Grace to You online while I wipe down our two bathrooms with vinegar and rags. I then move on to scrubbing the floors (again with vinegar, water, and rags), though if I dawdle too much I may end up with two helpers who think my bucket of water is their sensory table. Then I hang fresh towels (the dirty ones having been washed in that morning's laundry) and step back for a few minutes to enjoy the atmosphere. Within minutes, of course, the boys will splash soapy water all over the bathroom counter or dump their Cheerios on the aforementioned chocolatey rug, but the cleanliness is nice while it lasts.

Please understand, despite this and a previous post on a similar subject, I am not your typical clean freak. You won't find me washing windows, dusting bookshelves, or scrubbing cupboard doors unless - about once a year or so - I notice that something looks dirty. However, I do have an appreciation for order and the peace that comes from knowing that I am not going to step in something sticky. In some ways, cleaning is something I do for myself, because I can reap the rewards directly - short lived though they may be. At the same time, I see it a job that I do for the Lord.

Even if my messy boys do not see the charm in a shiny faucet or crumb-free carpet, I know that my work at home is blessing them. I am doing what I can to promote their health and hygiene, and at the same, I can teach them a valuable work ethic as they work alongside me. Can I honestly say that scrubbing toilets is fun? No way. But do I look forward to scrubbing the toilets so that they can be a little cleaner for the coming week? Absolutely. The outcome makes the task worthwhile.

The other tidbit you should know is that I was not born a clean fanatic. I grew up with the idea that vacuuming and bed making were the things one does right before company arrives. And while I was in charge of cleaning my own bathroom since the age of nine, I certainly never relished the task the way I do now. Loving cleanliness is a trait I have developed, and along with it, I have found a joy in the work that brings about such rewards.

This is one of the many (many!) reasons that I thank God and my hardworking husband for allowing me to be a homemaker. I am privileged to do a job that I love. It's not that I love cleaning per se; if I were forced to go out into the working world, I would not be applying with the Merry Maids. But I love doing exactly what my job title says: making home. I love making home a clean, comfortable place for my family to live and laugh and dream together. I love creating an environment where we can welcome guests or have a pretend picnic on the freshly vacuumed rug. I delight in doing this job that my Lord has called me to, because it is my privilege to take the house, apartment, or basement bedroom that we live in, and turn it into a home.

My people will live in peaceful dwelling places, in secure homes, in undisturbed places of rest.
Isaiah 32:18

Iced Tea and Dumplings: A Recipe for Refreshment

Donny was playing with his toy dishes as he talked about the iced tea that his grandmothers like to drink. He wondered when he would get to drink some, and refused to understand my explanations that we neither had iced tea in the refrigerator, nor did I intend to make any. Finally, realizing that he had all the child-size kitchenware at his disposal, I suggested, "Why don't you make some pretend iced tea?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied, very seriously. "I don't have any ice."

Naturally, I laughed at him and his somber predicament. This is the boy who tells me that the pitcher of water in the bathtub is bread, but now he can't even make pretend ice. I guess an imaginary ice maker will be in order for his next pretend birthday. The season for real iced tea is drawing to a close, and the cold beverage would definitely clash with the hot meal I made last night.

I was inspired by a discussion of the word "dumplings" between my husband and son. I had never eaten - or even seen - a dumpling in my life, but Don suggested that I should find out how to make them. Accordingly, I jotted "make dumplings" on my to-do list (because writing things down is the only way to ensure that I do everything). Yesterday, I dug through my favorite cookbook (otherwise known as the Internet) in search of a suitable recipe. I landed at my favorite cooking site, All Recipes. Not surprisingly, I found that most recipes were full of butter, vegetable oil, and other items that are unfriendly to my allergen-free and health-conscious diet. Finally, after reading dozens of reviews, I settled on this recipe, which I was able to adapt according to what I could eat and had on hand.

But I was tired yesterday. Even a brief rest while the boys were napping did not seem to help. As the afternoon wore on, I felt less and less motivated to start a big dinner project. Maybe I could save the dumplings for another day and just warm up something simple for one night. Still, the chicken was already defrosted, no easier dinner options presented themselves, and the rainy weather made this the perfect day to usher in autumn meals of hot comfort food. Mustering up my energy, I put on a pot of brown rice and began my venture into the world of unfamiliar cuisine.

It wasn't long before my two square feet of kitchen counter space were completely strewn with measuring cups and various pot lids. Rice was cooling on the back burner, my homemade (and dairy free) cream of chicken soup was simmering with browned chicken breast strips and carrots, and I was stirring the oil and (rice) milk in a bowl with the other dumpling ingredients. As tablespoonfuls of sticky dough plopped into the soup pot, I wondered if it would be silly to pray for the dumplings to turn out well. I hate to waste time, money, and ingredients on a dish that no one will eat, and I wanted my husband to enjoy his dinner. After all, he recently told me how he bragged to the guys at work that if he wants to try something new, his wife finds out how to make it and cook it for him! Of course, now I have to live up to my own reputation. The required twelve to fifteen minutes of boiling passed, but I still was not sure if they tasted right, having no other dumpling experience for comparison. It seemed like ages before Don came home and was finally ready to sample the new dish.

God was faithful even to my silly little prayer; apparently the dumplings turned out well, because my usually picky husband ate three helpings of the meal. Later, there were dishes to be washed, stories to be read, babies to be rocked, and goodnights to be said. Even after the kitchen was tidy and Hayden was fast asleep, Donny's loud whisper made his usual request: "Scratch my back and sing me some afraid songs." Sometimes, I rush through a song, wanting to move on to the part of the evening where I get to relax. But tonight, I lingered a little. I realized that it is a privilege to sing to my boys and tuck them in at night. It is a privilege to be the one who meets their constant needs. And it is a challenge to do so with a joyful spirit, but I am so blessed when I give of myself to my little ones.

And eventually, I did move on to my favorite part of the evening, which involved curling up in the arms of a satisfied and thankful husband. His sincere appreciation was enough to make me want to ladle gravy over his dinner plate every night and made the extra few minutes in preparation well worth the effort. Not long after, I realized that my sluggishness and fatigue were gone. In place of the lack of motivation I felt in the afternoon, there was a contented merriness. Knowing that I had blessed my husband gave me joy that could never be found in a long nap or a microwave dinner.

So what does my dumpling story have to do with iced tea? Throughout the day, it would have been easier to make excuses than to do something for someone else. I don't know how. I'm too tired. I don't feel like cooking. I can't do it that way. I could have echoed Donny's woefully serious words: I don't have any ice.

In our culture that emphasizes "me time" and looking out for our own needs first, it is easy to fall into a pattern of making excuses. My flesh wants to tell God, You want me to do that? I'm afraid not. I have nothing left to give. I don't have any. But just as Donny's lack of pretend ice was ridiculous to me, God sees through my hollow excuses. He knows that if I will just draw on His strength to get up and do what is necessary to make the iced tea, I will be able to enjoy the refreshing sweetness of blessing others.

The moral of the story: serving others (the comfort food of dumplings and gravy) refreshes me (like a glass of iced tea on a hot day). This proverb says it well:

A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed. - Proverbs 11:25

A Definitively Good Time

Practice hospitality. - Romans 12:13b

How do you define a good time? Last weekend, Don and I invited some friends over for the three F's: fun, food, and fellowship. All of our friends and family live more than an hour away, so when they forfeit a Saturday and a half tank of gas to visit us, we appreciate it. We enjoyed grilled hamburgers for dinner and homemade pie for dessert, played board games (including the updated version of Clue we received for Christmas), and engaged in conversation inspired by The Complete Book of Questions. Don and I often use the book to pass the time during long car rides, but it is also a great conversation starter for group gatherings, especially since the questions range from light and simple to deeply personal and spiritual matters.

I had to think for a few minutes when it was my turn to answer, "What is your idea of a good time?" I am probably a little unusual in the fact that I can have a good time organizing closets, but my sincere answer to the question was simply: "This." I love being a hostess, feeding people, playing games, and talking with friends and family. In preschool we called it "playing house;" in high school we called it out "hanging out." Now a grown-up combination of the two is my definition of "a good time."

The same day, I finished reading Passionate Housewives Desperate for God by Jennie Chancey and Stacy McDonald. If you have not read the book already, I highly recommend that you do so. (And if you have read it, go read it again!) Besides dispelling the myths of Christian feminism and reinforcing my beliefs that a woman's high calling is to be the keeper of her home, the book helped me develop a more detailed vision for my home. In fact, it is aptly subtitled "Fresh Vision for the Hopeful Homemaker." While I would already consider myself a pretty passionate housewife, I was inspired with thoughts of how I can use my home to reach out to and minister to others. My home is my center of ministry, and my primary job is to bless my family in my daily work. Beyond that, I can be a blessing to others by creating a welcoming environment where guests can find the embodiment of Christian love.

Then yesterday, I was blessed with an opportunity to be on the receiving end of such hospitality. As we walked into church on Sunday morning, a couple with four young boys introduced themselves to our family. When the service ended, they approached us again and invited us over for dinner! They explained that they lived quite a ways from the church, but they were having some other couples over and would love for us to join them too. Don and I debated about accepting the invitation, but we had no real reason to decline, and we concluded that the fellowship - even with people we didn't know - would be good for the whole family. As the wife jotted down directions on the back of a bulletin, I learned that they have not just four boys, but also three teenagers: seven children! "Oh, awesome!" I exclaimed, then explained, "We'd like to have a big family some day." Yet while I feel a sense of familiarity with larger families because I read about them in books, blogs, and magazines, I can't say that I have met many here in suburban New England. I was excited to see what a real "big" family looks like and discover how they live.

A few hours later, with homemade pies nestled safely in the trunk of our compact car, we crossed the border into Rhode Island for my very first time. I am a life-long New Englander, but somehow, I have never had any reason to journey to or through the tiny Ocean State. To my delight, our destination turned out to be a small farm in the woods, complete with goats, chickens, a sheep, and a pony. Inside, the old farmhouse was brimming with people and life. I was not surprised to see homeschooling books piled up in corners amidst jars of dry beans, baskets of potatoes, and spools of thread. There was nothing impressive about the house; it was crowded, the floors were stripped, and it certainly did not meet my ideal of "clean." Yet while the earthy atmosphere was in some ways completely foreign to me, it was comfortingly familiar at the same time. This was a home where real people work and play and eat and sleep and live - and for one day, I could be a part of it too.

My only regret of the afternoon was that I had not brought my camera. Kodak moments abounded as our boys fed corn husks to the goats, rode in the back of a tractor, and kept busy with the other children in the playhouse. We all ate - not in the more formal sit-down dinner style I had imagined - but with a casual buffet line and people grabbing a seat wherever they could find one. Then everyone, from toddler to adult to German Shepherd, went for a walk along the scenic bike path. We returned for dessert, tractor rides, and a bonfire in the backyard. I enjoyed talking with the other moms, while my husband, always the big kid of the party, became fast friends with the four boys we had seen that morning. By the time Don and I packed up our children and pie plates, we were already looking forward to seeing everyone again.

We arrived home late, tired, dirty, and smelling of bug spray and woodsmoke - yet incredibly refreshed. Besides the blessing of new friends and fellowship, we had been privileged to have a glimpse into a different kind of life: a life, in fact, rather like what I have imagined we might have one day. Lots of children, animals, land, friends...and love. Lots of love.

For now, our practice of hospitality will look different. But whether we have a broken refrigerator or a kitchen the size of a walk-in closet, we can invite guests to join us for food and fellowship. Whether we have wood benches on the back porch or a cheap couch that seats only two people, we can find a place to sit and talk, encouraging others with our conversation. Whether we have a gang of friendly children or just two playful toddlers, we can minister together as a family. Whether we live on a woodsy farm tucked behind the ghettos of Rhode Island or in a two bedroom apartment tucked behind a gas station and McDonald's, we are called to practice hospitality. Whatever the specifics may be, when believers open their homes to share, encourage, bless, and witness to others, the Spirit is there, and I cannot think of any activity that more accurately defines a good time.

Unclean

I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean; I will cleanse you from all your impurities and from all your idols.
Ezekiel 36:25

So far, I have mentioned some of the highlights of our vacation: the beautiful scenery of the Lakes Region, the fun times with family, the peacefulness of communing with nature. Yet in the midst of this, I have also been challenged by my own clandestine fear of dirtiness. Honestly, this week has been the closest to camping that I ever want to get. On one hand, I was deeply thankful that the house has laundry facilities; our towels may have grown mold without the aid of the electric dryer. I felt comfortable bathing the boys in the bathtub that did not seem gross, and I certainly appreciated that there was hot running water for showers, though in limited quantity. I even enjoyed the woodsy charm of the cabin's knotty pine walls and ceilings. On the other hand, my inner dirtophobe went into a state of alert over the sandy floors, the stairs that smelled like wet dog, the potential germs in someone else’s bathroom, the leaky toilet, the questionably clean dishes in the musty cupboards, the damp sheets, and the ants crawling across the kitchen table. I survived for the week, but it is difficult for me to imagine living like this all the time; I have been counting down the days until I get home to my own bed, shower, and kitchen in our newer, cleaner, drier apartment.

I have to say, I love being clean. If I were to compose a song about my favorite things, the chorus would certainly mention warm showers, clean sheets, freshly vacuumed rugs, and orderly closets. My love of the the clean, the tidy, and the organized is helpful to my homemaking career, and I do believe that our Lord is a God of order, not of chaos. But sometimes my fondness for all things neat and clean threatens to turn into a bizarre sort of idol worship, where my peace is destroyed until I achieve the comfortable level of cleanliness I seek. Don’t get me wrong; my home is far from spotless. I don’t follow guests around with a Dustbuster, nor do I carry Lysol spray in my pocketbook. Really, my issues are not so much about my actions, but more about the inward struggle I go through when I feel like I or my surroundings are dirty, unsanitary, or overly messy.

I suspect that my struggles are fueled by our ultra-sanitary American culture. I need to remember that people throughout history have lived happy and Godly lives without the luxuries of disposable plastic wrappers or self-flushing toilets. Before vacuum cleaners and indoor plumbing, women kept home with dirt floors and dirty feet. Bugs and rodents were everyday occurrences. Today, we react over a large insect the way pioneer women must have reacted to an angry grizzly outside the cabin door. People bathed once a week and wore the same clothes every day to do physical labor, yet I insist on washing shirts that the children have worn for just a few hours. My mental standards of cleanliness seem almost ridiculous in comparison.

Yes, times have changed since pioneer days. But what if someday God calls me to a third world country, and I have to live in a place where even clean drinking water is scarce? Thinking less extreme, what if I have to live in a home that smells musty or looks dirty or is (I shudder as I type this) infested with pests? Can I truly be a joyful keeper of my home if I am ever faced with such challenges? In the midst of the shabby, the old, and the unwashed, could I truly boast contentment in Christ alone, or would my longing for something better cast a shadow over my home?

Just to be clear about the intent of this post, I am not in any way trying to denounce personal hygiene, cleanliness, or sanitary conditions. However, I am denouncing the false god who tempts me by setting up cleanliness as an idol to be worshipped. Absolutely, I will continue to strive for a clean home; I will continue to wash my floors, dishes, clothing, and children with faithful regularity. But I will also pray for an attitude of love that sees past dirty floors and dirty feet. If I am really to love others, I must be willing to get dirty – even if I can’t wash my hands right away, even if I don’t have my favorite pink dishwashing gloves to protect my delicate skin. Lord, may I pour out at your feet my obsession with a germ-free, dirt-free life. May I rise above whatever muck and mire and dust and dirt I find myself in, to look in your face and know that You are the only one who can truly make me clean.