I closed on the house on Wednesday, and the last few days have been a blur of Lysol, paint cans, and dust creatures (nothing so docile as bunnies, I can assure you).

My house sometimes feels like an albatross, but as everyone keeps reminding me, it’s my albatross. And apparently that counts for something.

Another weird thing that began to happen over the last 24 hours is that the house is becoming a metaphor for everything spiritual that’s happening in my life. Like when I paint over dirty cabinets I think about all the ways I try to cover sin. When I try to take care of things and bring order to the house I reminded of God’s commission to stewardship. And when I spend three hours peeling old shelf paper out of the cabinets until my fingers bleed and am still not finished with the project, I consider sanctification and how painfully slow it often feels.

Mostly, I’m just thankful, trying not to let the exhaustion become exasperation.