My Mess, My Business

Kelly Tolman shares about the day she stopped keeping her mess from Jesus.

I once read a meme that said, "I get more cleaning done in the 10 minutes before someone comes over than I do in a week." Isn't it true? Before we have company, the house is frantically cleaned, and all items that don't offer a semblance of order are hastily thrown in any closet or back room I can safely keep from an unsuspecting guest's eyes: my mess, my business. 

My kids complain: Mom, why does it matter?! I explain that when you welcome someone into your home, you should always make them feel that they were expected and prepared for — not an intruder into someone's private circus.  

“My mess, my business” became my mantra for anyone I encountered, including God. When I'd pray, I'd do so like I was inviting a guest into my home. Over time, He moved with me from room to room as I carried heavy loads that caused me anxiety and strain. I'd march past Him to throw heaps of stuff as far into the back room as I could and smile with an "everything is fine!" smile. When the back room had reached capacity, I started filling another room.  

My entryway was clean, my main living areas were spotless, and the kitchen tidy, albeit cluttered. It was these spaces I would invite Jesus to sit with me. Here, I felt comfortable and in control. Neat and orderly mattered, because like a good hostess, I wanted Him to know how much I loved Him and how thankful I was for His presence. He was too precious a gift for me to share my cluttered mess with Him. 

It all came crashing down 

Then, something terrible happened. Everything looked to be in tip-top shape when one of the doors to the back room gave way, and everything came crashing to the ground. I fell to my knees with embarrassment. All around me lay decades of yuck that I had pushed away to invite Jesus into my life like the good hostess that I was. 

Lying in a crumpled mess on the ground were bad decisions, broken friendships, marital trouble, self-hatred, and depression. This was all mixed in with every one of my vices: just lying there, naked, for Him to see. All the moments I screamed at my kids, screamed at my husband, screamed at myself, screamed at God. ... They were all there, too. I couldn't deny any of it. I couldn't hide from any of it.  

I stayed on the ground for some time with my hands covering my face in embarrassment. When I was fairly certain Jesus had walked away from my disaster, I stood up. Right at my feet was a puddle of a particularly terrible memory that always left me feeling empty. I was sitting on the bathroom floor in my parent's home, eating a piece of pizza. I had just had a baby and was suffering a raging bout of depression. My husband, a private in the Army, had just been sent to Korea for 15 months. I was alone, ashamed of being a college dropout, embarrassed by being such a young mom, trying to navigate a post-pregnancy body, and desperately ached for my husband to come home. 

I cried and ate my pizza alone. In the bathroom. On the floor.  

A new perspective

Frustrated with myself, I crouched down to pick her up: younger-sad-sitting-on-the-floor-pizza-eating-Kelly. I couldn't wait to throw her back in the closet where she belonged. But when I looked closely, I saw someone patiently sitting on the outside of the bathroom door. He stood up and looked at me. Then He reached down and lifted my younger self into His arms. He held her in front of me to look at. She had mascara running down her cheek and pizza sauce in the corners of her mouth. She looked pathetic. I was mortified. But Jesus just looked at me, smiled, and said she is beautiful. 

He kept her standing before me and invited me to see her the way He did. Younger-sad-sitting-on-the-floor-pizza-eating-Kelly was beautiful to Him. I struggled to remember why I had hidden her from Him for so long. As I looked around at the mess at my feet, I realized that Jesus was present in every memory. I didn't see Him at the time, but He was indeed there. … None of it felt like dirty little secrets anymore, just a past we shared. 

That day, I realized that it is Jesus who sits on the other side of the bathroom door, waiting for us while we eat pizza and cry. It is Him who reaches down and picks up our broken pieces for as long as we have pieces to pick up, and Him who loves us even when we struggle to love ourselves. It is Jesus who heals our broken hearts, Jesus who binds up our wounds, and Jesus who rolls up His sleeves and helps us clean our mess. 

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Copyright 2024 Kelly Tolman
Images: Canva