Cleaning a Tidy Home

Virginia Hughes

It was a most promising day for a twelve-year-old. My elder sister Mary, a college student, had mentioned a “once upon a time,” very special, perfect opportunity just for me. My generous, astute sister was also the best recruiter to enlist her siblings. She drew us in, built us up and added phrases from our favorite adventure stories with endings no less than “happily ever after.”

Mary was passing down a cleaning job she no longer wanted. In our family, shoes, clothes and books weren’t the only hand-me-downs. This time it was a job for only “someone very responsible and attentive,” according to her. She had my rapt attention. No matter that this same sister had recently passed down a lousy job—babysitting four little beasts posing as children along with their giant, ever watchful German shepherd, suspicious of a babysitter entering his territory. I loved dogs, but Rebel’s serious woof, “Hark, who goes there?” made me tremble. He sensed my fear, and I trembled more. The parents of the wild children paid a hapless babysitter in varying amounts according to whatever chump change was left in the mom’s jacket pocket. It never covered the hours of misery spent with undisciplined children. I jumped at the opportunity to hand over that babysitting gig to my younger sibling and ran to the bus stop early on Saturday morning. It may seem a fairy tale that one so young would be entrusted to clean a home, but, in my experience no one blinked that a twelve-year-old would clean a home, watch a group of children, cook dinner, mow the lawn and complete other chores often reserved for older teens or grownups. Most of the kids I knew had a generous amount of responsibility put upon us, and we reveled in it.

Squeezing the sweaty bus fare in my palm, I heard the city bus chugging up the street. When it came to the stop, I climbed the steep bus steps, plinked my dime into the clear fare box and requested a transfer, please, to get all the way across town for my cleaning job. Free transfers were a legitimate part of the system but typically sent disgruntled bus drivers into reeling consternation. A chunky, grey transfer binder was reached only with the driver’s most extreme stretch, opened, transfer ticket marked, a copy torn from the book and handed to me in a huff.

I received the transfer reverently. It appeared to be made of light pink tissue paper mixed with cotton candy threads invented by tiny elves and magic dragonflies, thinner than the pages of my Bible in its gauzy flimsiness. My next duty would be to keep that delicate ticket from disintegrating in the eight blocks left to the transfer point downtown. It couldn’t be placed on the seat as it may float away or be sat upon. A pocket couldn’t hold it. A hand would mash it in seconds. A purse would mangle it. I sometimes placed it in a book, which held it nicely, but hid it instantly within its pages and required the book be vigorously shaken until the pink diaphanous ticket floated down the bus steps partially disintegrating in the air or landing atop a puddle by the curb. City bus drivers let it be known they didn’t appreciate my varied failures to turn in an unscathed transfer; but with sigh and shake of head, they accepted it every time.

Today, the first day on the new cleaning job, Mary would teach me how to clean as I never had before. As we entered the large sturdy stone house with its ultra shag, aqua carpet under bright orange couches, it was apparent there was no visible wear and tear in the home. Comfy teal chaise lounge chairs held gold satin pillows filled with soft down. A grand piano stretched elegantly in front of thick open aqua velvet drapes. No rumpled newspapers, brothers wrestling, stacks of homework, dolls, shoes or board games strewn about. Nary a pile of laundry in various stages; no dishes in the sink.

What was I supposed to clean here in this pristine palace of sheen? It wasn’t the grime of a home bashed around by active children, including friends and pets. “Does anyone live here?” I wondered aloud. My sister showed me their photos on the side table. The mister, missus and their college-aged son. The bride in another photo was a daughter already married and moved into her own home.

We got right to work. I learned a lot about cleaning in this already-looked-clean home. Dirt lurked within, and my sister had a system for cleaning all the surfaces, edges and floors. Dust wasn’t going to rest in a corner or on a molding. “There is always dust that only the most discerning eye can see,” my sister stated, still building me up and very good at this kind of training. “And if your discerning eye cannot see it, know it is still there, and must be wiped clean.” Everything, even the items that looked fine, had to be picked up and dusted thoroughly. Mary was not going to accept a lazy swab of the cloth.

In the son’s room, there was a large tan tray filled with manly cologne bottles designed by the Avon Company and trendy in the 1970s. I dusted them all and personal favorites were the golden gavel, the black Model T car, a green horse head and a brown bottle shaped like a buffalo. With names like Spicy, Weekend, Excalibur and Wild Country, the drama those bottles lived out on that tray completely captured my imagination as I spritzed and dusted until they glistened.

Room by room, Mary took me through the house. We reached up into the corners to knock down cobwebs with a broom covered in a dust cloth. We dusted the high shelves no one could see, we vacuumed and reached way under the beds for dust bunnies. The blissful lemon Pledge with its spray, “psssshhhh,” gently fell like a light snow in scented droplets on the wooden coffee table. Spraying it end to end on the even longer dining room table followed by careful polishes of the softest cloth was almost a reward.

Eventually I passed my sister’s inspections and soon cleaned on my own with no big sister saying see this, notice this, see, see? I saw a difference in the before and after in this house that originally looked fine when I knew nothing. The carpet that was mashed was now standing up from a thorough vacuuming. Glass mirrors and vases sparkled. The piano had no fingerprints. Rooms smelled fresh.

In due season, I helped with spring and fall cleaning which included stripping old wax from wood and linoleum floors and applying the hard gloss finish and protective shield of Glo-Coat. Wall and window washing were also part of the spring and fall cleaning list. Practical life skills about getting rid of dirt were learned during those early cleaning years. The cycle of dirt is constant, and the cleaning cycle needs to match it.

Cleaning a house room by room is a picture of how I am a house that begs cleaning every day. The Lord cleanses from all unrighteousness as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us. (See Psalm 103:12.) I ask Christ to complete his perfect work in me, to wash me and I shall be whiter than snow as Psalm 51:7 describes.

My soul won’t thrive when the dust of doubt and fear accumulate and cloud my vision of God. Bad attitude, may your stench be sterilized and replaced by an aroma of serving which is pleasing to Jesus. Bored apathy, be swept away and exchanged for earnest caring. Laziness, to the curb with you. I choose to praise God, trust and obey. For all my blind spots, shake me with a cleansing prayer: Search me, O God, and know my heart. Try me and know my thoughts. And see if there be any grievous way in me and lead me in the way everlasting. (Psalm 139:23-24)

After hours of scrubbing and dusting in the house, the last part of my job was to take all the trash outside to the waste bin, throw it in and listen to the lid crash closed singing, “You did it, you are done for today!” That was a happily ever after that lasted a whole week until the next Saturday. I would return and clean the home all over again until I passed the cleaning job onto my younger sibling.

Cleaning takes consistent contact with the cleaning cloth in my home and in my mind. I must be willing to be cleaned. If we confess our sins, Jesus is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9) Whether it’s our homes or ourselves, our souls long to dwell in a home that is not only tidy, but truly clean.