exploding house, exploding mind
When we bought our house three and a half years ago, we knew we’d be gutting the denim blue kitchen with its mauvy purple countertops. I’ve loved our kitchen for many things: the view from the sink of the backyard, a perfect place to keep an eye out for children creeping out the back gate; the expanse of cabinets I’ve left empty because I don’t have that much stuff; the dented linoleum that can withstand crayons, spills, and dirty dog paws because it was never that pretty to begin with. But now, now that beneath my feet I hear and feel drilling and hammering and whatever is making that screeching sound, I’m happy that blue-and-purple room has been scraped to its plywood bones.
Demolition began the week before Thanksgiving. We made it through our first holiday sans kitchen (thanks to my gracious mother, who scurried around after my children while I baked and cooked), but I had ridiculous hopes that somehow, as a Christmas miracle, our new kitchen would be ready by December 25. Didn’t happen. I thought I could deal with that; I could ignore the sheets of plastic separating our living room from the gutted space beyond and focus on the twinkly Christmas tree lights instead. And while the holidays distracted me from the unrestrained chaos, now we’re midway through January and I’m still crouching on the basement floor breaking eggs into a rice cooker to scramble for breakfast.
No longer can I ignore the spillage. Every room of the house has now, as a result of my poor organizational skills, acquired a smattering of the things usually tucked away in our old kitchen drawers and cabinets. I’d thought we’d squeeze all the junk into the dining room and let that be our sole chaotic place. But, instead, there’s a drift of mess (in a house already cluttered to some degree or other), from the clean silverware spread out on a pool towel on my bathroom floor, to the kitchen table jutting out next to our sofa in the living room, to the bar cart in the basement laden with my grandma’s crystal bowls, a ceramic 9x13, and a container of measuring cups and spatulas.
I attributed my initial blase attitude toward the mess to myself, of course; I’m growing older, so I must be gaining wisdom and maturity. Really, though, I probably hadn’t stopped to pay much attention: our first week of remodeling we headed to the beach to escape the dust; the second we traveled out of town for Thanksgiving and then hustled to find a tree and decorate for the holidays; most of December kept us running around trying to be festive. And here we are, nearly two months into a project I’ve been dreaming of for years, and my attitude is awful.
Today, I exploded. My house exploded first, so I blame that: if the house looks like a tornado swept through, then that’s why my mind feels like it’s been stormed as well. I took my anger out on my husband. If he hadn’t left an empty La Croix box on the floor, I would have kept my cool. If he could manage to pick up after himself a little better, and stop leaving glasses of water lying around with his invisalign teeth in them, I wouldn’t feel so insane. The house made me crazy, my husband seemed a likely target, and I completely avoided looking inside my own heart.
I’ve been thinking a lot about suffering, and how I have not truly encountered sorrow the way many others have. Here I am, self-absorbed, spoiled, and ungrateful. I want to do more than work through my frustration when the house is a disaster. And I want to do more than practice gratitude in the midst of my exploding mind. I want to train for the days that I may face harder trials.
This isn’t the end of my struggles, but it might be the place where I prepare to live them. Here is where I learn not to blame my husband, but to think of how I might support him in the middle of my own fight against sin. Here is where I learn to teach my children joy and peace when the house is loud and dirty, and also where I learn to show them how to tidy up without worshiping a spotless house. Here is where I practice looking inward instead of outward, and I hope that, over time, that reflex sharpens. So someday, it isn’t after grumbling to my family about the mess and bursting into unexpected tears, but before, when the first seeds of displeasure sprout in my ungrateful heart, that I can stop and judge what’s lurking underneath.
I’m grateful to have the purple countertops ripped away, the blue walls brightened, the old rotting door ripped out and replaced. The noise, the mess, the sheets of plastic are all temporary. And I hope that my quickness to fault someone or something else for my anger is temporary, too. As my kitchen is broken down and rebuilt, I hope the Lord will do the same in me. He is faithful, even when we are faithless. He cannot deny himself.[1]
[1] 2 Tim 2:13
