October 12, 2012

domestic goddess

That's me. A goddess. Putting Venus to shame.
Not really.
But it makes for a great title, right? And I didn't really feel like titling this post The Domestic Zit Face.

When I was growing up, Moma was always being domestic.
She sewed stuff.
She cooked things.
She cleaned stuff.
She planted things.
She accidently bleached our jeans out. (I started doing my own laundry after awhile. In self defense.)
She burned the green beans every time. (One time, there was smoke damage.)
She sang songs.
She homeschooled us. (And it's entirely not her fault that I can't figure out 8x6 without a calculator.)
She decorated, and painted, and made everything homey.

Home is where the heart is, but more than that... home was where Moma was.

Anyway, my poor Moma tried her best to cast her domestic cloak upon my shoulders.
She had a hard time with that one considering that I A) hate sewing, B) hate cooking, and C) flee from the sight of any pile of laundry.
But in spite of my hatred for sewing and cooking and laundry, I managed to follow in Moma's domestic footsteps.
If you had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up at age 10, I would've said, A moma. I want 13 children. I want 6 sets of twins and one single baby at the end. They will fold my laundry for me. They will cook for me. And at night, I'll sing them to sleep. I'm going to name one of my girls Smokey Star because I read that one Lori Wick book and loved the heroine... who's name was Smokey. She was short like me, and ended up with some hottie named Dallas. I will also name one of my sons Dallas.

I've changed my mind about the 6 sets of twins since then.

But maybe I'll still use Smokey Star... if I ever buy a horse.

But there is one thing that I love, and that's homemaking.


I'm not a stay at-home-mom. I'm not even a housewife. (Apparently, you have to have a husband and kids to qualify for those, and I don't have either.)
But I'm a homemaker. And I agree with C.S. Lewis. Homemaking is bombdiggity. There's nothing more satisfying to me than making my house a home.
I love home. I get homesick when I leave it. Even if I'm just going to the store. My idea of the best day is getting to stay home from work, and doing homey things like eyeballing my piles of laundry and discovering that SOS pads work magic on that stubborn ring of dirt around my tub.

My home is important to me. I want it to be the best that it can be. I want the girls to grow up with memories of Aunt Sunny's place. Memories like the ones I have of going to my Granny Walston's when I was growing up. Memories like the ones I have of Moma making our own house a home.

So I make my own laundry soap.
I'm going to make my own plum jam.
I grow my own garden (Well... anyway I tried!).
I paint stuff.
I write up menu plans.
I budget.
I went to Costco the other week and was so excited by buying bulk toilet paper that I thought I would pop. (Except that there's something so embarrassing about walking thru the store with that giant amount of toilet paper. It's like, What you lookin' at, huh? So I use lots of toilet paper. What about it, huh?)
I decorate and love it.
I move furniture around.
I organize.
I dream about the day I own my own house and can build tree houses for the girls.
I want a tire swing and a hammock.
I went to Target last night and spent my gift card on a bathroom cabinet, and then spent the next hour thinking about what exactly I'm going to fill it with. Should it be a medicine cabinet? Or should it hold our hair things? Or should I fill it with mouthwash and floss? Decisions, decisions.
I want chickens.
I do crafts.

But really, this is the heart of homemaking:
Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands. Pro 14:1
Through wisdom is an house builded; and by understanding is it established. Pro 24:3
Choose you this day whom ye will serve... but as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD. Joshua 24:15

And therein lies the secret to homemaking. Choosing whom ye will serve.
No amount of decorating, gardening, baking, sewing, or homemade plum jam will make a house a home if there's no God in it.
Because home is where God is. Because God is the One Who gives me the kind words to speak, the loving heart to open up, the willing hands, the time and talents, the curbed temper, and the compassion that it takes to make my house a happy home.
And without God... my temper flares, my heart is stingy, and my hands are unwilling.

I read this verse the other day and loved it, ... I will walk within my house with a perfect heart. Ps 101:2
A perfect heart. That's so David, the man with a heart after God's own.
I want a perfect heart in my home. It's my desire. I don't always have it. Usually my heart is caught up with the wrong things, and my home suffers for it. But a perfect heart is what I strive for.
A perfect heart loves and seeks God with it's entirety. A perfect heart chooses to serve God and no other.

So I'm going to make a little sign for my new home, and I'm going to paint a little house and a little heart on it. And beside the little heart house, I'll write that verse, I will walk within my house with a perfect heart.
And then I'll hang it where I'll see it as soon as I walk in the front door.
To remind me Whom I serve.
So that my house will be a home.

Also, who even cares that I have piles of laundry hidden in my closet and under my bed? Not me.

Love,
The Domestic Zit Face

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