Messy Manger: Hidden Joy

I just finished vacuuming my entire house for the second day in a row. There is something so very wrong with that. Actually, B.daddy did it yesterday, because he is amazing. Also, it may have had something to do with the smoke coming out of my ears every time I stated another chore I HAD TO DO ALL BY MYSELF BECAUSE NO ONE AROUND HERE DOES ANYTHING AT ALL AND I ALWAYS HAVE TO DO IT ALL!
ALL. BY. MYSELF!!!
*breathe...1...2...3...breathe...1...2...3....*
Of course I didn't say any of that out loud--there's no way I would get away with that. Nor did I think those things literally in my mind. But B.daddy could see the frigid glare that precedes the hours-long "discussion" we sometimes have about "helping out around the house." On these glorious occasions, I sit stone cold, not saying a thing, while that little rant is on auto-repeat in my brain. So I say nothing--which he loves--until the Devil Woman finally gets tired and lets me think for myself. Then I'm perfectly agreeable and apologetic and compassionate. Right, babe?

So he vacuumed yesterday.

My husband rarely thinks it is funny or called for when I cuss. I almost always think it is both. (Thankfully I have a friend who loves it when I cuss, so if I need to I just text her.) However, when we were laying in bed last night and I acknowledged that I'd been super cranky and bitchy all day he couldn't agree fast enough. He even repeated it out loud in his own voice, which I think helped him in his emotional processing of the day. I was glad I could help him in that way.
But I digress. This little morsel of literary gold is, amazingly enough, not about how bitchy I can be. (On very, very, very rare occasions.)
The reason for the vacuuming was blue spruce needles. Several years ago, after we had recently bought an artificial Christmas tree "to save money and time", I convinced my Money Maker that we should again start spending $50+ and an entire day, every year to get a natural--otherwise known as A REAL--Christmas tree. Naturally, (see what I did there) this means we have slippery, two inch needles all over and in random parts of our house from late November to early September. October is a glorious month. During that month we have wet, dead leaves from the entire neighborhood tracked in my already suffering entryway and kitchen. But I digress. Again.
Since Sweet Pea loves to put everything in her mouth these days I try to keep the floors reasonably clean. That's a lot for me to handle. But I try. So Day Two of Vacuuming was a must.

I tell ya' something about these evergreen needles, though. I like them. Yeah, it makes it look like I haven't vacuumed since December, but there's a whole lot more in my house to suggest that! When I see them I don't think about housekeeping or my failures as such. I remember our last Christmas. I remember the tree, the ornaments, (the ones we broke this time), the gifts we got the kids, (the ones they only played with for a day), the pj's we were all wearing, (which I'm still wearing at this moment), the desperate dash to make the coffee before we start opening presents. I remember the dark, tired evenings B.daddy and I tried with all our might to do our Advent reading, the kids' whoops and laughter when we actually did, because they could make another ornament for the Jesse Tree. Most of all, because this is Me, I remember the smell of the tree. I savored walking by the "Big Daddy" tree in the living room, the *Charlie Brown* Jesse tree in the prayer nook and smelling the fresh, clean green so many times throughout those exhausting days. Smells are quite possibly the most important thing in my entire sensory universe. The only reason I ever learned to bake was because I wanted the smell of freshly baked bread to warm my home on a regular basis. The only reason I ever do laundry is because I love the smell of fabric softener on clean cotton. So smelling an honest to goodness Christmas tree in my house fulfills every indescribable hope I've ever had about creating warm, whole traditions that will hopefully carry our children through this cold, broken world.
These needles remind me from January to September that we are trying. Our muscles burn and our hearts ache, but we are trying. We are doing the work. We are making the sacrifices. We are already reaping rewards.
I believe every generation's plea and pledge is this: That our children will know more joy and hope and freedom than we ever did. Yes, we dealt with a lot of crap growing up. But our parents dealt with it, too. And their parents did as well. The thing is, if we are present....if we are trying, each generation improves upon the last. Despite the mistakes they and we have all made, we have all tried, we are all trying. And we keep trying. If we all just keep trying, our children--this precious, pudgy, brand new generation will know more.
They will know more Love.
Yes. There is no way they will not know hurt, pain, despair, sorrow, betrayal. But they can also know Love. Which puts all that pain in it's proper place.
Love does not have an arrival point. It does not have an ending. There is no, "Okay, you're done being loved. See ya' next year."
We never stop trying.
Nor does it have a beginning. This Love did not begin with me or my husband. It did not begin with our parents or theirs. Love comes from something so far beyond our wildest imagination, it can drive us crazy. Or it can drive us sad. Or lonely. Or ravenous. There is some element of So Much More in every Love experience we have. The longing goes from behind to before where we cannot even see. Anything but Love drives us so far in the opposite direction.
Love simply Is. It Is more than us.
And in our skin and bones, Love does.
If I can open up my terrified heart to allow Love to Be in me....even though I feel shamed or selfish or lazy or bitchy or busy or distracted....if I can just breathe.
Just be still.
Let Love Be here.
Yes, with you. The whole reason you can let Love be with someone like you is because Love is Love. It is kind and compassionate and does not discriminate against the messed up. Because Love is what it is, it wants to engulf you within itself so you can really, truly breathe for the first time. Feel freedom for the first time over and over again. Breathe. Be still.

Now, pour that Love out.

That's what these pesky little needles remind me of each time one emerges from a crack in a floorboard or a crevasse in a threshold. On a sweltering, July afternoon or a fearful, first day of school, I remember that we are trying. My husband and I are so often confused and tired and worried. But let's just be still for a minute. Let's just breathe. How about we let the Love that wants to help, come in and help.