Crying Over Spilt Milk

I am not a good housekeeper. I am sad about it, but it is the truth. I'm a mess (in more ways than one) and I have to work really hard to keep my house even slightly neat. Emphasis on slightly.

Some time ago I realized there had been a chocolate milk spill in my fridge. I will not tell you the specific length of time because there is really only so much of my pathetic I'm willing to share. I saw the spill was massive. All down the back wall of the fridge, pooling up at the bottom, under the meat drawer. And do you want to know what I did? I closed the door and walked away. I know some of you are dying right this second. My sister is both simultaneously shaking her head in shame and trying to figure out how to get down here asap and get a hold of my forsaken fridge.

Every time I opened the door, I literally felt sick at the thought of cleaning it. So, I would just close the door again. (Please don't hate. You have no idea how utterly embarrassed I am to write this...) And my fridge is not the only place in my house I've spent time ignoring.

Today, I tackled the fridge. I wanted it to be easy. I wanted to find the perfect tool to scrape it all out in one fell swoop. What I got was a whole lotta scrubbing. The kind that makes your fingers sore. There was nothing to do but to scrub down through the layers that I allowed to harden and crust over time.

I knew as soon as I started scrubbing this wasn't just about my fridge. The Lord has had me in a place of facing some places in my heart that I have continuously shut the door on. He has led me by the hand and turned my shoulders saying, "Let's take a look." And on my most stubborn days, He gently takes my chin. "Look. Don't be afraid. Just look." And I won't lie. I've found mess. Dirty, crusty, stuck on mess. Mess that, if I had only taken a look long ago, probably wouldn't require so much scrubbing. Because the scrubbing? It hurts. A lot.

Today though, as I scrubbed the bottom of the fridge, each time I saw the white start to come through, it encouraged me to keep scrubbing. If I focused on how much was still left to deal with, I felt overwhelmed. If I focused on that little patch of white, I found myself thinking, "It's working. Don't quit."

In my soul I'm beginning to see those patches of white shining through. The Christ in me that has been covered over by my stubborn refusal to SEE. He is teaching me how to scrub, and most importantly, He is teaching me to keep scrubbing even when it hurts.

I need change. I need to face each mess when it comes, right that minute. It takes God-sized courage to face our own mess, it really does. My sore, worn out hands are raised to him to say "Thank you". He doesn't ask us to scrub without teaching us how.