That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave. Ann Voskamp
We are walking to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and she is already apologising for the mess. There are pots in the sink from a meal enjoyed and the paper work of a fully loved life, in piles to colour up every surface, in this holy place home. And I don’t care about the mess on the surface because I want to tell her about the mess of my day. I want to tell her which circumstances conspired against me like a gang of playground bullies. I want to tell her how every last best piece of my well-meaning self was broad daylight robbed of all good intentions, that my best laid plans lay crumpled and torn as the scraps of paper I scribbled them down on.
There is peace on a sagging sofa with a rug to cover up the holes, underneath a large bay window, with afternoon light pouring in to illuminate the dust motes that float in the air. We sit amongst the abandoned sweaters and school books, to pray.
And God shows up in the everyday detritus of our dishevelled lives, beauty from ashes. Because if he isn’t there, to be found in the mess, he won’t be found at all.
Other writing friend contributions to FMF
A few friends and I share a little FMF writing over the weekend, comment on each others blogs and generally chew the cud through Facebook chats and random conversations whenever we get the chance. You are very welcome to join us . Contact me for more information or send me a link to your piece so I can include it here.
I left the house this morning, it was tidy, it was neat
I walk back in this evening and the change is very clear
The hall is carpeted with coats, there are shoes kicked far and near
And the kitchen sink shows signs of… something… someone made to eat.
There’s never a clear surface though I’m forever making space
There are crumbs around the toaster and some butter on the floor
There is something rather sticky that’s been spilt beside the door
And a general air of chaos seems to hang around the place
From upstairs I hear their voices, laughter echoes through the air
I can follow in their footsteps as I pick up what they’ve dropped
And as I begin to grumble, my thoughts abruptly stopped
What will the house be like in days when they’re no longer there?
One day not too far distant I’ll come home to tidiness
No one to disrupt order, no clothes or crumbs or books
And I suspect that as I give my tidy home a grateful look
That something in my heart will long for just a little mess!
I used to be mess averse but my recent journey to recovery from depression and anxiety has led me to tolerate it. Possibly at times to even embrace mess. .. click here to read more
I am currently sat in bed with my iPad mini, a bin full of tissues at my side, a bottle of water, packet of lockets, and a box of unused tissues on my bedside table. This wasn’t the plan … click here to read more
There are 2 kinds of MESS … click here to read more
My room is a mess. My bag is a mess. My head is a mess … click here to read more
We write for five minutes flat. All on the same prompt that Lisa Jo Baker posts at 1 minute past midnight EST ever Friday at lisajobaker.com. And we connect on Twitter with the hashtag #FiveMinuteFriday
No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation.
Unscripted. Unedited. Real.