Every time I remember that the housecleaners are coming, I run over my list of to-do’s. I need first to take care of random piles of clutter that need sorting (give away, throw away, put away.) I go to the closet looking for clean sheets and towels. I set up the payment for their fees.
It is a point of privilege to have these women come every other week to clean. It is a small way that I take care of myself since I can afford it. Yes, in the weeks in between, I clean the counters, wipe off the stove, change the sheets and towels, and clean the random mess off the floor. But when the cleaners come, I know every surface will get wiped down or cleaned. The house will smell fresh. It’s a blessing.
Since Ken died, it has been a little easier to prepare for their arrival. After all, it’s only one person’s clutter, not two. But the cleaners notice things like the pile of cards from friends and how the tissue boxes get emptied. They gently dust his picture on my side table and say, “he has a kind face.” They bring him into the present. They see my grief even when I try to clean it up…
A recent “message to myself” on my chalkboard reminded me:
“Cleaning for the cleaners” also is a great metaphor for how we humans hide our brokenness from one another. It’s much easier to look nice and be put together on the outside than explain that on the inside, you’re simply… tired… sad… grieving. We* play “pretend”. The unicorns we are riding, preening in our self-censure, reflect the practice of projecting the image that everything is just great, thanks! when in reality… the ups and downs are still there.
We* also tend to act as though our problems are all covered by prayer and our faith in the Divine. And while it is true that they are held in this God-space of comfort, more often than not we can’t voice what we are feeling, and the feelings get stuffed. We fear being thought less of. We don’t want to be secretly criticized. Perhaps we are in a place of leadership and don’t want to bring our troubles out in the open. There is a time and a place for letting your truth flag fly… but if you are someone who never shows vulnerability or emotional honesty, I wonder about your leadership skills. (I wonder about mine.)
I will keep cleaning for the cleaners because it makes their job easier. But don’t be surprised if you get an honest answer the next time you ask me, “How are you?” Today, I’d tell you, “You know, I’m doing OK more than No-K these days.” But tomorrow you could hear a diarrhea of feelings: “Grief sucks. Life sucks. The fire alarm started beeping in the middle of the night and I had to fix it. And I had to fix the toilet — thanks to Google — And you know… I just miss him…” Or… you could hear, “Great! How are you?” because I just don’t want to go there. And every single one of those statements would be true in the moment.
Will you hear me be so vulnerable in the pulpit? I guess it depends on the context and the teaching. A hymn can move me to tears. A hug will give me the courage to be honest. But whether I share or not, whether or not grief weaves its way into my sermons, I can still affirm that I am never out of the realm of Divine Love. Never. Ever.
A Jennifer Knapp song, Faithful to Me, comes to mind…
Through another day, another trial
Another chance to reconcile to One who sees past all I see
And reaching out my weary hand I pray that You’d understand
You’re the only one who’s faithful to me…
*and by “we” I mean, of course, I…
An Unfinished Symphony 
This would be great in your book….
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