Grace in the Mess

When I think of an ideal home, I imagine order, silence, everything in its place. But this summer, our dishwasher broke. In the busyness of life, repair slipped down the list, and so my hands found the water again. Morning and evening, sleeves rolled, I stood at the sink with plates stacked like books waiting to be returned — evidence of use, of life in motion. At first it felt like another burden. Slowly, strangely, the sink became a kind of reset.

First comes dinner. Then come the jobs.
Henry is ten, Lucy is eight. Lucy shakes the rugs, puts away the things that drift to doorways and end tables, and cleans the bathroom sink and mirror. Henry sweeps the kitchen floor and deals with the laundry — mostly towels. Mom is the cook, but that does not keep her from clearing the table and vacuuming. And me? I take the sink.

But at the table, before the jobs, there is play.

Henry and Lucy do not spell dinner d-i-n-n-e-r.
They spell it p-l-a-y.
Forks clanging. Juice tipping. Bread breaking before it is blessed.
Their giggles like fireworks exploding over my hope for a quiet, orderly meal.

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“Rules alone cannot give life. It is joy that makes the table holy.”

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Meanwhile, my inner sergeant — or librarian, or maître d’ of some imagined quiet café — rises and shouts:
Sit still. Eat neater. Clean up. Be done.

I want calm. I want order.
But then Lucy laughs with noodles dangling, spaghetti sauce dripping down her chin, and Henry stirs together a strange concoction of foods that were never meant to be mixed. And I remember — oh yes — rules alone cannot give life. It is joy that makes the table holy.

Brother Lawrence said he flipped pancakes for love of God.
Teresa of Ávila swore that God Himself walked among the pots and pans.
I believe them.
But in my kitchen, holiness sounds less like a hymn and more like children concocting experiments, dropping spoons, and laughing until they can hardly breathe.

We try to guide the attention with our dinner questions:
What went well today? What was a struggle? Who did you bless, and who blessed you?
Still, they play. They are good kids. And I am learning to join them, even while part of me just wants everyone to eat their food and keep the spaghetti where it belongs.

Every night, I have choices.
Clamp down — bark orders until joy shrivels.
Check out — retreat and miss the moment entirely.
Or join in — redirect, laugh, let the mess become part of the meal.

It is never tidy. It is never perfect.
But it is alive.

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By the time I am back at the sink, sleeves wet, the water is warmer than I am.
The suds wash more than dishes. They rinse the sharpness off my spirit.
They remind me that control was never the point.

Maybe the sink is my reset, my small chapel.
Maybe this broken dishwasher has been a better teacher than a fixed one.
And maybe when it is fixed, even unloading it — bending, stretching, stacking — can become a kind of prayer. Practical tai chi, as holy as kneeling.

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What does an ideal home look like?
Not like the cover of a magazine.
Not spotless. Not silent.

An ideal home is clatter and laughter.
It is grace served alongside bread.
It is forgiveness moving as freely as water through the basin.
It is Spirit breaking through where law would shut things down.

Maybe heaven has already moved in.
What about your home? Where does joy sneak past the rules and surprise you?

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Tags:
#FaithInTheEveryday #OrdinaryHoliness #FamilyTableMoments #MessyAndBeautiful #GraceInTheMess #JoyfulChaos #SoulfulStories #HolyMess #KitchenGrace #HomeIsWhereTheHeartIs