The house is quiet today.
It’s been quiet previously, of course. Quiet when the girls were away at camp. Quiet when they spent the whole day at an amusement park. Quiet when they slept over at a friend’s house. But this is a different sort of quiet.
This is the quiet that whispers, “This is your new normal. Make of it what you will. Do it with intention, lest you slip into habits you would not choose.” And so, of course, like countless women before me, I meet the stress of a season of transition with a broom and a spray bottle. There’s nothing quite like the clean of the well-ordered home of a woman who is sad or angry or worried or all three. This is not quite that, though.
First, I throw open all the windows. The air outside is crisp, and it dances across the still full, beautifully pristine swimming pool. No one has been brave enough to swim for a couple weeks now. I guess we’re open for cold plunges? After a summer filled with the incessant squeak and slam of the back door and my losing battle to keep wet footprints from the wood floor, the breeze blows cool through the windows I’ve flung wide.
And I hear the walls sigh.
A forgotten towel remains in a heap on the mudroom floor. The last remnant of summer as we are plunged into September.
Schedules tighten. The basket of mismatched flip-flops gives way to rain boots. And the house — once crowded and stretched to its capacity — waits for me to tend its worn places, to make it shine again in its new season. Without judgment, it invites me to create room within its walls to take long, slow, full breaths and to exhale peace. Some homes breathe easy. Others feel as if they are holding their breath. After a summer that was hot and emotionally heavy, I want my home to exhale grace and envelop those of us who remain in its embrace.
This is not a Pinterest project. It is a soul project that will manifest itself in my surroundings. It is a prepared environment project — one where I create room to breathe — in the house and in my soul.
I begin simply. One pantry closet. (Truth be told, it was the moths that drew me here and insisted I begin.) Then a drawer. Then a basket of things I haven’t touched since we moved here five years ago. I remind myself that this is not about control. This is not rage cleaning. This is about peace. It’s about permission to let go of what no longer serves, what no longer fits, what no longer feels like it belongs in this season of our lives.
There is something sacred in the creating and the keeping of a home. It’s never just about the accumulation and ordering of possessions. It’s about stewardship. If we invite him in first, God meets us in the order we restore, in the quiet we protect. I want a home that breathes full breaths, that invites people in and gives them space to rest.
Isaiah tells us “My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places” (Is 32:18). That’s the goal on this fine September day — not perfect décor or Instagram aesthetic — just peace. Not a showroom, but a haven. A home that reflects my trust that God is here in the folding of the laundry, the tidying of the closets, the clearing of surfaces so that our souls can breathe again.
I’m wise enough not to even try to overhaul everything. I’m just opening windows made of wavy glass, thinking of the generations of women before me who have also welcomed new seasons. I’m listening for the heartbeat of this old home. Because when it sighs with relief — exhaling long and soft — there’s space again for joy. For prayer. For quiet conversations beneath down comforters. There’s space for autumn.
There’s space for grace to fall into the corners of my home and the tender places of my heart.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
