Ungrateful

Hello, Lord.

We need to talk.
Something has been bothering me for quite some time now.
I need to air some grievances and address the injustices that my circumstance has caused me.


This is hard for me to talk to You about because I love to think that I impress people 

with my supreme homemaking abilities.


Okay, here goes.


It's about this house.

Others think that I always have the house immaculate and exquisitely decorated, 
the floors scrubbed, 
everything vacuumed and in its place. 
I don't quite know where they got that notion?
Perhaps because most pictures I take are staged?

But You and I know, 
that in reality,
I have piles of dirty laundry, waiting to be washed and dried.
Baskets of clean linens waiting to be ironed.
Socks waiting to be paired.
Hangers waiting to be utilized.
Someone's always staining something, which then becomes my chore.
My dilemma.
They just toss it in the pile, and I'm supposed to take it from there.
Exemption for them, affliction for me.

And since you're listening,
I also thought I'd mention something else.
I hate cleaning the bathroom, Lord.
It's gross. 
Why does my family's poop have to stink?
Why must their body waste leave me with a toilet to scrub? 
A shower to scour?
A sink to wipe?
Toothpaste splatters on the mirror to scrape off?
Hair in the corner, behind the door?
Yuck.
Just yuck.

Have you seen what's happening here, God?
It's unbelievable!
What about all this stuff on the counter, Lord?
What is wrong with the drawers?
Are the drawers broken?
Are their hands broken?
Can't they see the clutter and disarray?
How is anything useful when it is scattered amongst all the other paraphernalia?
Why can't they just put things where they belong?
How come they treat their things like this?

See this dust, God?
What a nuisance.
Couldn't you have just not invented it?
No matter how many times I wipe it away, it always comes back.
It just settles there, taunting me, waiting for the feather duster.
So, I dust it. 
So, what does it get me?
As soon as the feather duster is out of sight,
the particles make an even more voluminous comeback, 
only to start the cycle of
mockery once again!


Not fair.

And another thing!
These children you gave me 
never make their beds when they know that it pleases me,
nor do they come the first time I call, 
nor have their dishes land squarely in the dishwasher 
when they are through eating 
IN THE LIVING ROOM!
Selective hearing I've heard it called.
Honestly, where did they learn this behavior?

Since You're interested, let me ask You something else.
Why does everyone walk by the dishwasher when it needs to be emptied?
One would think they'd take the hint when I open the door!
Instead, they shuffle by, on their way to another destination that
is somehow more important at that moment.
Like the coffee maker for some caffeine,
the sink for a glass of water,
or the fridge to find a bite to eat,
as if that's more important than serving ME!

My life would be so much easier if I didn't have all these obstacles.

You surely know that

I could get so much more out of life!

My days, 

my months, 

my years 

would go much more smoothly 

if I weren't constantly interrupted by 

dirt, 

debris, 

and 

disorder.

So, Lord, I now ask you...would it be too much 

if I even occasionally 

got a little bit of cooperation,

a smidgen of appreciation,

a whisper of praise?

A speck of love?

A fraction of gratitude?

Well, would it?

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What's that?

Did you say something?

How often do I say thanks?

To You?

But haven't you seen the messes?

You've seen MY mess?

Are You blind to the turmoil this dirt causes me?

You came to clean MY dirt?

My heart?

My sin-laden soul is now spotless?

I have let my pride keep me from thanksgiving and praise to You?

Lord, I agree that I have a fading memory,

and I love to neatly forget Your mercy.

I conveniently fold and stow away Your grace.

I scrub out the remainders of Your salvation.

You don't care about the condition of my house, 

as much as You care about the condition of my heart.

Dirty dishes or dirty mind?

Cluttered counters or improper motives?

Messy martyr or sympathetic servant?

God, remind me of how wonderful You are and restore the joy of my thanksgiving!

Make me grateful, I pray.

Amen.

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