"Listen to the sermon preached to you by the flowers, the trees, the shrubs, the sky, and the whole world. Notice how they preach to you a sermon full of love, of praise of God, and how they invite you to glorify the sublimity of that sovereign Artist who has given them being." St. Paul of the Cross

Have you ever seen one of those Instagram posts with a caption of the variety, “I want to show you what it really looks like around here.  This is what my house looks like 90% of the time!”  The image appears to be a curated mess—a couple of wooden toys, a board book, and a lone babyGap shoe, “scattered” around and photographed in perfect lighting. 

Perhaps some of these ladies have a much different definition of "mess" (I mean, I've never seen this type of post from a man, which seems to show that women often feel the need to justify and apologize for silly things, such as a visually pleasing Instagram reel—just own it, all you lovely and talented bloggers and social media mavens!).  However, I do sense a social media trend toward authenticity that I know is born from good intentions but often appears false.  I can understand arranging, posing, and cropping a space for the sake of aesthetics—but to do all of that and then call it “real life” or “messy”? Let me show you a small part of my mess. 

This is not my current laundry situation; there is more. Both the washer and dryer are full. Locked in the guest bedroom is a load I haven’t put away for a week. Hanging all over my room are pieces to air-dry. The only arranging I did for this picture was put a pair of my underwear into the basket because I’m a bashful prude. 

The dining room floor is covered in dust, play-dough chunks, and ribbons and board game pieces that some chubby hands dumped for fun. I haven’t mopped my kitchen floor in...I’m not sure. I promise you, it needs mopping. Vomit is stinking up my kitchen trash can, and unwashed dishes are decorating the counter. All of my floors need to be vacuumed. When did I last dust? Sadly, I could continue the list. I’m tempted to point the finger at pregnancy and a resurgence in migraines—deem it “a phase”—but I know the situation won’t change once we add a third tiny tornado to the family. I don't detail my home's state of affairs to one-up anyone (no one enjoys hearing the sentiment, "I'm the most stressed out person in the world!"); I'd just like for our social media selves to be a little more accurate (dare I say honest) with semantics. 

You may have also seen Instagram posts with captions such as, “I hope you know that my Instagram reel is not an accurate portrait of my life. I love to try to get a beautiful photograph; you should see the rest of my home, outside of this nicely cropped square.” That is a statement I can understand and respect (although I say again—don’t apologize for your pretty presentation, bloggers and social media stunners!). I think most of us know that Instagram is an alternate reality: the best moments of our lives, filtered and staged. It’s when people seem to stage the unstaged that makes me squirm. After being caught in the thick of edited selves for a decade or more (MySpace, Facebook, Instagram, etc.), people seem to be reacting with a desire to be real and vulnerable (e.g. the #nofilter trend).  If you're going to be real with us, do it.  If you're going to filter, crop, and edit, do it.  Let the real be real and let the pretty be pretty.  Sometimes the real is pretty; many times, it isn't. 

Now, I’m not a good photographer, and I’m not an interior decorator. You can see from my laundry display how dated my linoleum is. My home has rather bleak lighting (unless you go outside!). So even if I tried, I don’t think I could find or effectively memorialize some lone square of beauty in my home through an artful photograph. 

That’s okay. This post is not about comparison but about finding the beautiful (and receiving it graciously).  There is already beauty in this world, from surface-level to sublime, too often overlooked because of incessant fussing, fretting, staging, and scrolling.  Photographing and editing might help you to savor that beauty, revisit it from time to time—but if that's not your forte, don't let distraction and dissatisfaction rob you of the stunning reality of the here and now.

Sometimes, the one beautiful thing I can find in my home is that I am here, and my children are here.

I am here. 

My children are here.

And that is enough.

If I can turn from my screens and the never-ending clutter to truly consider the miracle of their tiny, wondrous bodies tagging along my heels, 
it is breathtaking, 
beautiful, 
perfectly enough.