I hate my kitchen floor.
The kitchen floor seems to be a never ending saga in our home. The rolled, bargain basement, white linoleum in our kitchen has textured crevices that were a thing of beauty for all of about five minutes. I quickly realized each tiny groove was going to be a trap for dirt. I managed for the first few years to acceptably maintain linoleum central, but as the years increased, so did the number of kids. Ironman and I have four kids, and when six people occupy a relatively small living space, you seem to manufacture dirt, and we do. Tons of dirt. I constantly searched for cleaners that would break through the gunk. I tried everything. Nothing would penetrate to the original white. Since I am mildly OCD, I have been complaining about this floor for nearly eleven years. The complaints have been gradually increasing, and as of late I complain several times a day. No matter what I do to clean it, it still looks dirty. I try to console myself. I know it's clean. I am Mrs. Clean. Mrs. Clean has cleaned the floor and the floor- sigh- looks gross.
FLOOR
IS
DRIVING
ME
CRAZY!
Ironman must have finally had enough of my nagging, grumbling, and complaining (not some of my better qualities, I will admit). He decided to step in with his superpowers, and borrow the church's floor buffer. Wanting to do the job right, he trekked off to Home Depot to purchase a special pad for the scrubbing machine. Lady Depot gave Ironman the perfect product for the jackhammer-like wonder cleaner. "It's made especially for linoleum," she promised. We hauled the table, six chairs, area rug, garbage can, crocks, and mats out of the kitchen to ready it for the big clean. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. I allowed myself to dream of clean crevices and sparkly white floors. Muscles flexed. Handlebars gripped. Super Powers enabled. Motor revved.
RUMBLE
ZOOM
ROAR
CLATTER
RIP
BANG
YIKES!
UGH...
Lady Depot, sadly, is not a truth teller. If I had it my way, she would be transferred to another department. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY! The top layer of linoleum was ripped clean off. Clean off. Oh dear. Whine. I have perfected the art of doing the best I can with what have, so I fell to my hands and knees like Cinderella with a bucket and scrub brush dreaming of a groove free, non-white, tile floor that I am clearly not going to receive. My heart went to ugly places. I am ashamed to admit the depth of the blackness I am capable of thinking and feeling. I compared myself to others around me, and their financial ability to salve almost any materialistic desire they may have. I began to feel bitter about the people in my life that haven't tasted what it feels like to muddle along from pay check to pay check- for years. Scrub. Scrub. I am so alone. Scrub. Scrub. Back and forth. Jealousy's seed stirred in my heart, and I felt powerless to overcome it. Scrub. Scrub. Sob. Then I heard it.
A faint whisper…
Shanda…
Shanda…
My daughter…
You are comparing yourself to the wrong people…
I have had to remind myself on more than one occasion to "Take it to Africa." That's what I say around these parts when the lies of our affluent culture begin to steal my perspective. While I was rigorously scrubbing away at my kitchen floor, I awakened to the fact that I have a kitchen floor to scrub. When I feel frustrated that our cars can no longer be classified in the current decade, I have to remind myself that we have two cars, and they both do run. When I get overwhelmed that we scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, I remember that we receive more money on a weekly basis than the majority of people in the world receive in a year, and for some it is more than they receive in their entire lifetime. We have a roof over our heads, albeit a bit leaky. We are warm in the cold months and cool in the warm months. All six of us are clothed and fed, quite abundantly at that. We are not living in a hut in Africa with a grass roof and dirt floor, and we don't struggle to find drinking water that is safe for ingestion. Take it to Africa. Take it to Africa. "Yes, God. You have blessed us beyond belief. Forgive me for my ungrateful heart. I am ashamed that I have not treated your provisions like the gifts that they are- given directly from Your hand." Take it to Africa. Take it to Africa. My own words laid sluggish and burdensome in my heart. In my humanness, I lost sight of what really mattered. We have been provided for. It is our affluent culture that screams at me that I need a new kitchen floor, but I don't really need a new kitchen floor. In all honesty, I may still want a new kitchen floor. I will probably even struggle greatly with this desire, but I will try to remember how over-the-top blessed I am, skip the longing for a gleaming floor, and pass on a portion of our provision directly to Africa.
With my re-found perspective, I finished giving our floor the business. It still doesn't look clean, but I know it is, and I am grateful. I decided to appreciate the blessing of the rest of my kitchen as well, and I enthusiastically cleaned the fridge, microwave, stove, dishwasher, sink and counters. I even polished the kitchen cabinets. My kitchen sparkled for the most part. I went to bed feeling satisfied that deep cleaning had taken place in more than just my kitchen, but most importantly, in my heart.
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