The house always had to be shining clean for Christmas and since Mom ruled, we the children took the vacuum cleaner nozzle into the deepest corners and the dustcloths to the tops of all those many framed things on the walls.
That wasn’t quite going where no kid had been before, but it was shifting to a higher gear than the usual Saturday morning cleaning. I was reminiscing with my friend Mary Hill, also the child of an Irish mother with the “clean house for Sundays and holy days” obsession. We agreed that it fit with the whole Catholic thing about suffering, doing penance to clean the sin from your soul. It’s a concept which was imposed more heavy-handedly back in the day. Never mind saying 10 Hail Marys and Our Fathers, we were on our knees applying oily furniture polish to an ornately carved stairway bannister. Every Saturday. For hours. While other kids were free to play.
But I exaggerate. Weekly housecleaning devotions were widely practiced in the Midwest then, and it still is a custom today. The neighbor kids were Lutherans, and their Norwegian and German mothers were even more fanatical about it than me own Mother Machree.
When I moved to Hawaii, I discovered that housecleaning as a tenet of a belief system is also rooted in Asian Buddhist culture. They’ll be cleaning house to prepare for the New Year. And, sad for me to see, that includes putting the Christmas tree in the trash while the real 12 days of Christmas are still underway.
The Christian theology of housecleaning, as taught to me as a child, begins with loving Jesus. We polish our souls, and clear out the dirty, nasty stuff from our minds and hearts, to prepare to welcome God into our lives. Cleaning out the dirt, dust and debris from your home is a metaphor for the spiritual tending we do, and it needs to be continued throughout our lives.
Before I soar too high in the clouds, of course cleaning is absolutely a practical necessity in life. As a matter of self-pride, you set limits on what makes your habitat tolerable. If you are a social creature, you’ll make your space comfortable and welcoming to family and friends. Proud of your possessions, you want to show them off shiny and not hidden under a layer of dust.
In my decades in Hawaii, I’ve seen many variations of the secular practice of cleaning, and adjusted my views of its spirituality. I have experienced some extremes. I knew a Portuguese grandmother whose expectations would have exceeded my mother’s. I’ve been comfortable in homes where love thrived amid phenomenal clutter, dust and pet hair. I’ve been uncomfortable in homes where the sparkling possessions were household gods. Generally speaking, we take it easy on ourselves in a warm climate, with windows and doors open to the outdoors all year long, geckos and roaches and other wildlife having easy access, beach sand carried home, people comfortable in unpretentious, hospitable surroundings. Winter weather doesn’t confine us indoors up close with the stuff that needs sorting or polishing.
As someone who has really, really taken it easy on herself, housecleaningwise, I can testify that it is very painful to try to redeem yourself from years of backsliding. With visitors coming for Christmas, it’s a been an Advent of bigtime penitential cleaning. After months of ignoring crusted louvers — because they are always open anyway — mildew patches on the walls and lizard droppings on the lanai — because they’ll just do it again — I’ve found doing penance on a ladder is as painful as on the knees.
While suffering so deeply, I’m hearing my mother’s voice nagging about why I didn’t continue the weekly devotions of cleaning house for the Sabbath. Singing a duet with Mom is her other daughter, primary hostess for the visitors, whose suffering is greater because she has a bigger space and less inclination to cut herself some slack. After they sing the verses, our impending visitors are singing the refrain (imagine the “Hallelujah Chorus”): “Don’t bother. It doesn’t matter. You’re what’s important. We’ll be together. We love you.” Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
I’m revisiting the logical and theological arguments we kids developed. Why clean the upstairs when the visitors will be in the living room looking at the Christmas tree? Santa will get all sooty coming down the chimney — we had one of those, but he nevah — so why bother to clean the rug? If Jesus, or Santa, looks into my heart and soul, he’ll see I am a shining star, he won’t care if I’m in a slightly dim setting.
My personal favorite of childhood theology: Jesus was born in a stable. It was no clean, sparkling place. Animals pooped in there. It didn’t keep the angels from singing, the shepherds and their animals from dropping in and the Wise Men from bringing presents. And God wrote the whole script; He didn’t choose a palatial birthplace for His Son. Honest, Mom, He won’t be mad if I didn’t wash the screens.
By the time this is published, hopefully the suffering will be over. Some of the stuff — why can’t I throw away any book or paper or shred things — will be stashed in a closed-door room. I’m planning a dim lights strategy to disguise untouched corners. OK, I admit it, I’m forgiving myself for some flaws as a cleaner.
However far we get with the extreme makeover, the point is to be offering the work as a gift of love and a gesture of welcome.
We will be looking at the faces of our beloved family at Christmas this year. I know they’ll be looking into our eyes and not into the corner to find the spider web.
Instead of Handel’s magnificent music, the chorus in my head has been a little chant that my great-niece Marissa — one of the treasured expected visitors — learned to recite as a second grader during Advent. “Be awake. Be ready. The Lord is coming soon.”
I’ve cleared the cobwebs from my brain. I am so ready.
