In Praise of Housework

I've been home from Africa for 5 months.  Periodically people ask me what I miss most. My answer is always, "My housekeeper."  It's even somewhat true.  After a long day at work it's nice to come home to a clean house.  However, it's somewhat untrue, too.  Mostly, it's just the answer that gets the quickest laugh and lends the quickest hand to changing the subject, something people are surprisingly wont to do after they've asked a question with no real intent to hear its proper answer.

So why don't I miss my housekeeper?  Well, first of all, having a housekeeper is not necessarily easier than keeping house myself.  It simply requires a different skill set. 

 Secondly, as I give my nod to Wendell Berry, there as much to be said for keeping one's own house as there is to be said for working one's own land.  In the house I lived in in Uganda I never felt properly at home. After journeying around the continent I never felt that sense of "Awwww... home" when I entered my own doors again.  Don't me wrong, it's always nice to be amongst your own things again, but there was a sense of permanence missing.  I emphatically believe that it's because I never cleaned my own home.  I didn't know its inner workings, if you will.  Even now, in this home I've lived in for a few short months, I feel more at home because I clean the floor, wipe the counters, and make the bed.  This is my home because I take care of it. 

Fr. Shmemman said that all of life is sacramental.  In this same vein, there is a blessing in housework.  I don't carry the same loathing with me anymore when I clean my home.  There is a joy that was unbeknownst to me in my life before Africa.