My mood was a bit sour.

My arm hurt.
My arm hurt tremendously.

I had pushed myself all day to make things feel like normal.

And now, I just wanted to be quiet.
To sit still.
To rest.

In my clean house.

As I got up and wandered in the kitchen I could feel irritation creeping in — the little hairs on the back of my recently iodine scrubbed neck and arms began to rise. It was the kitchen. Again. After dinner it’s supposed to be cleaned. The counters wiped, food put away, and floor swept. It’s my haven — and I love it to be, well, almost spotless. At least as spotless as it can get on a weeknight in a family of nine.

There was some stuff on the floor. A piece of paper, some legos, a map.
The stove wasn’t wiped down.
Rags hung over the edge of the sink slowly dripping water to the rug below.
Pans needed to be put away.
Certainly not my haven.

I was irritated.

Quickly, I grabbed my brand new gleaming white kitchen rag {which I bought at Target in a pack of ten for $2 in that crazy 2Day Sale} and started to scrub away at the stove with my one good arm. As I pushed away at the remnants of scrambled eggs, sugar and cinnamon, and who knows what else, I started to speak — to complain — about how poorly I felt the kitchen was cleaned tonight. Then for some reason, some reason that I’m extremely grateful — I stopped completely.

I stood there, in my kitchen, and started to look around.

I could hear the hum of the dishwasher running.
I could see my stainless tea kettle recently scrubbed.
There were pans washed and drying.
A cleared table.
Little paper candy canes dotting the cabinets.
A note on the fridge.
My candle, lit by Chloe, flickering above the sink.
Little joys.

My eyes were so set on seeing what was wrong that I missed what was good.

And there was more good than those minor things that were wrong.

Was it perfect? Was it clean the way that I would have cleaned it? No. But there was effort. Work. And that work was done without grumbling. Instead of being grateful for the diligence that was shown instead I became focused on me. On how I would want to see the kitchen. Instead of seeing it as an opportunity to teach and bless it became a spot where I could easily have instilled shame.

Did I ever tell them to squeeze out all the water in those rags? Or did I just assume that they’d know that? What if the reason the stove wasn’t wiped was because that old glass cooktop of ours was still warm and they were just being safe? Would I want someone always complaining because I never did things just the right way?

So now, tonight, I chose to thank them for their work and quietly let go of the rest. More running away from that perfectionism. Again. Tomorrow we can talk about that rag, or picking up the toys, or when to wipe the stove. But, not now, not after they’ve worked hard. Right now is a time to encourage, to thank, to be grateful.

It’s all too easy to look at the wrong things and miss the good.

Open my eyes.
Open my eyes.
Open my eyes.

It took me six minutes to finish the kitchen.
Six little minutes.

Thank you, Jesus, for that still small voice that shifted the focus from me and onto to them. It’s not about the kitchen. No not at all. It’s those hearts, those dear, dear hearts.

Open my eyes.

I’ve noticed that I envy all to easily.  I was wandering through Target wishing that my cart was overflowing with stuff, and sad that I couldn’t fill it with fun items. I’d look at the frames, or the pillows, or a shirt, or holiday decorations and slowly put them back.  Not today.

And I started to grumble while I walked.

My heart began to reflect discontent.


Then I became convicted to be aware that there are those wandering Target who would love the contents of my cart — milk, bread, and fruit. Samuel  — a child, a gift.  So humbling. Extremely humbling.

So I started to move through Target aware of those pushing the red carts around me.  I was no longer interested in the contents of their cart, but rather the individual, the person, the family around the cart.   I discovered there were many others with just milk, bread and fruit.  And that a genuine look in the eye, or a smile, or even a couple kind words changes things.

My heart began to be grateful.

I don’t want to live oblivious to those around me.

I want to be a light.  To smile.  To help. To keep my eyes on Jesus — not the things and stuff and worries of today. To be grateful.  For that bread. The milk or fruit.  The children.

And that posture helped me.  I just needed to be aware of my own heart’s quickness in wandering.  About how I was allowing consumerism, or envy, or anxiety,  or discontent, or just my own selfishness to cloud my thinking. Stuff fades.  But kindness lasts.  That’s what really, really matters.