cleaning curtains, hiding clutter, and called Beloved

We're having company over for dinner tonight - new friends that have a son about S's age.  My children are finally napping, I have a few minutes of down time, and you know what I'm doing?  Of course you do.  You've been there too.

I'm cleaning.  Preparing.  Striving.  Sweeping, cooking, hiding clutter.

I even washed the darned kitchen curtains, which have never before been washed. To my credit - or shame, you pick - they did have huge avocado stains on them from one youngest son who has decided to use them as his daily napkin, and did desperately need to be washed.  But still.

Now two hours into nap, our house looks like no toddlers live here.  Aside from the copious numbers of toys that are haphazardly hanging out of the toy box.  And you know, the two toddlers that my friend knows I have, and is bringing hers over to play with.

"Accept me.  Love me! Think that I have my act together!"

What am I doing?

Ironically, the last conversation I had with this friend?  Mom guilt.  Comparison.  Feeling like we need to measure up, and how we all feel like we don't.  How we all feel judged, even if we're not.

Obviously there's a balance - hospitality is a good thing.  Creating a (beautiful, clean, comfortable) space where others can relax and feel welcomed without stepping on week old pre-chewed cheerios, is totally valid.  Good, even.  But meticulously cleaning so that others will approve of me?

We all know the lesson - we preach it to others all the time.  No one worries about you or your kids as much as you do.  Just be yourself - that's who we love and want to hang out with.  We've all been there with the hot mess melting down toddler.  Our houses aren't clean either.  Please don't worry about it.  Honestly, it's not a big deal. 

But then, we go home, and we worry.  We clean.  We prepare.  We work hard to make sure that our kids aren't those kids. That our house isn't that house.  That we aren't that mom.  

Or we don't.  And then we apologize profusely.  "I'm so sorry my toddlers are being loud" (never met a toddler that wasn't). "I'm sorry that I didn't clean up" (Please.  Drs Hoover and Bissell could live here and the carpet wouldn't be cleaner).  "I feel like I should have at least put on makeup; I look like a hot mess!" (You're wearing deodorant and look like you showered in the last day - so ahead of me).

("I'm so sorry there's no dinner tonight; I was too busy blogging my feelings..." jk jk. kind of.)

Somehow we all know the lesson, but somewhere it gets lost in translation and not applied. 

At a root and core, I think we're all just scared that we'll mess up.  That we'll be judged.  Not loved.   Not appreciated.  Found wanting.  Not thought to be [you fill in the blank]. 

That's true for me with friends, with company, and in so many other areas, blogosphere among them.

Ever post that I push publish on - I get antsy and scared that it won't be read.  That no will care.  That I won't matter.  Because I do that, even though I know the falseness of it and the dangers therein, my identity becomes wrapped up in what I do, where I am, and how I'm received/perceived.  And I desperately want to be accepted, loved, and respected.

Even though this whole blog is about how I'm called Beloved.  Given an identity that is unshakable.  Named. Known.  Loved.  Not defined by our successes or failures.  Somehow I always keep circling back into that pernicious cycle of looking for external acceptance and worth and value.

I don't have the first clue how to handle the urgent sense that I need to clean up, prepare, and make myself and our house presentable.  I don't know whether I should leave the clutter or find a hospitable balance or hand our guests a vacuum cleaner, or keep maniacally cleaning.  I'm going to hazard a wild guess that balance is the way to go.

But what I do know is this:  we're all right, in that lesson that we all know.  We are so much more than our houses, our children, or our ability to (appear to) have our sh$& together. 

Our identity is not found nor secure in others' opinions of us.

I am (you are) called Beloved.  Known.  Loved.  Accepted.  Belonging.  Free.  Free.  Free.  And that is unconditional, not based on what we do, who we know, or how clean our curtains are.

But it doesn't do much good unless we actually live it.

I need to tape it to my doors, mirrors, and toilet handles.  To my broom, my makeup kit, my toddler's back, to my wallet.  I need it tattooed on my hand, and written on my pillow.  Whatever it takes to translate it from my minds to my hearts to my lives.  Because when we actually live that out, we are finally able to actually love and welcome and know and accept others, and finally become that safe space, that comfortable person, and that shelter in the storm of longing that we desire to be, every time we preach that same old lesson.  Because we've learned that lesson ourselves.

One day at a time.  I'll keep writing the same story, over, and over and over again.