I recently took a week off work and didn’t once leave the Norfolk city limits. Heck, I think the longest I was in my car at any time was maybe the ten minutes from one store to the other. The rest of my time was dedicated to setting up the office that’s sat empty since we bought our house a year ago, cleaning the entire house, cooking, and working on post-Navy plans (one year, nine months, and one week to go.) The routine was uneventful and mundane but overwhelming in what I learned in the silent moments of folding laundry and listening to the vacuum roar:
- We owe generations upon generations of homemakers and caretakers (mostly women) more than we could ever imagine for all their unpaid, unnoticed, and unappreciated labor.
- There is pride, honor and a subtle, understated glory in that labor.
- That labor feels like a calling to me.
Before anyone’s ex-evangelical alarm bells go off (I have them too, trust me), let me be clear: I firmly believe a person’s heart, personality, and passion determine their vocation, path, and/or role in a family, not their gender or a Bible verse ripped out of context. That’s how you get things like a transgender man who wants to work from home so he can be a house-husband—one that takes a surprising amount of pride in that aspiration.
The more I think about it, the more I think that pride comes from how little has been associated with such a role for such a long time. Expectation (especially for women)? Absolutely. Pride? Not so much, seeing as we’re still struggling to distribute the labor in heterosexual marriages when both spouses work. When someone does work domestically for pay, it isn’t for much.
But so much of that labor is needed for peace of mind and wellness, more so than we often notice. My spirit can breathe easier when my floors are swept and my kitchen is in order. Making the bed with clean sheets and a smooth, aired out comforter feels like a ritual almost akin to prayer in the moment of slowness and small movements. The effort of making a meal for my wife after a long, stressful day of work feels like blessing a communion of both body and mind. All these things are as small as a whisper yet feel as nourishing as a full breath of spring air.
That feels like a good sign I’ve found where I’m supposed to be.
It’ll be a while before I can get there (military contracts, bills to pay, and all that jazz), but there’s a sort of peace in knowing where all your efforts are leading, whether it’s a goal or the feeling of accomplishment tied to finally all the floors in your house mopped. It makes every soaking dish, fresh-cut blade of grass, and whiff of vinegar-based cleaner a small picture of Not Yet, but One Day.
So, if you can, savor the moments of your chores and celebrate the peace, calm, and brightness they bring you and those around you.
And, more importantly, if you can, go thank those who have cleaned and cooked for you along the way. For theirs was and is the work of Heaven.
Finnely King-Scoular (’14) is stationed at Naval Station Norfolk in Norfolk, VA, where he lives with his wife, Rosalind (’13). His writing, including the Faerie Court Chronicles series from NineStar Press, focuses on contemporary fantasy with an emphasis on LGBTQ+ representation.
I really enjoyed reading this.
This line: “My spirit can breathe easier when my floors are swept and my kitchen is in order.” and the ones that follow it rang true to me—as a kid, I would’ve disagreed with these things, because it didn’t feel like it made much of a difference to me. But after living for a while with a partner to whom things like a clean floor and a made bed are absolutely essential to a sense of well-being, I’ve come to really recognize the value there, and take part in the appreciation of it however I can.