Purpose In The Middle Of The Mess

Okay, confession time. I’m stretched pretty thin these days. With my oldest daughter settling in after the transition of moving back home, a new school year launching a new season of growth for my youngest daughter, our church preparing a fresh call to purpose at our annual youth conference, learning to be content in the chaos of constant doctor's appointments, and creating space for peace in another weekend of house-sitting (yes, again), things are feeling a little bit like...well, chaos. Clutter. Overwhelm.

And in the midst of it all, I'm revamping how I handle my social media presence while trying to finish a book.

To tell the truth, sometimes even the smallest wins feel like precious drops of orange juice—tangy sweetness squeezed word by word from my crazy life. I'm juggling a lot of “almosts” and unfinished things right now. Still learning to let go of perfection. Still finding peace in the chaos, even when progress feels invisible.

I fully intended to clean my whole house this week. To restore order. To be productive, focused. Calm. But as it does so often lately, life had other plans. And somewhere in the middle, right there in the battle of emotional clutter vs physical clutter, in the space between motherhood and mess, I remembered that unfinished work still matters. Even when the very picture of "unfinished work" looks like...me.

I didn’t realize how noisy my mind had gotten, how hungry I was for peace and progress, until the bedroom was clean. I accept grace from God, pour that grace out as well as I can on the people around me...but grace...for myself? From myself? When life feels out of control? When the only steady thing I have to hold onto is my faith in the middle of the mess?

Well, that's not so simple.

A few decluttered spaces, a stack of things put back where they belonged, a tied-up trash bag, a vacuumed floor. And a clean bed, prettily made. When I finished, the room wasn't perfect, but it was clean enough to let me breathe again. The tightness in my chest eased, the lingering sense of constant panic faded, and my thoughts finally had a little room to slow down and settle in—but just a little.

It was one room, in a two-story, three-bedroom apartment where every nook, corner, and cranny begged for attention. And even then, the absence of physical clutter in that one room gave my mind a place to recognize emotional clutter, still clinging like cobwebs to the edges of a desperately weary heart. The pressure to check off the lists, to be present for the people who count on me, to smile through unshed tears and keep teaching everyone else how to hold on to hope.

Wednesday night, I sat in church with my students, my heart aching as one of my precious girls tearfully shared her fear of drifting away from God. Of becoming numb enough to look away from the miracle of love that deep. Of losing her spiritual purpose in hard times, when it's easier to slide down the slope of distraction than to slog through the wilderness of slow spiritual growth. She said she gives her heart to other things sometimes—the excitement of a new crush, the quiet of a comfort show, the dissociated apathy of doom scrolling. "I don't want to love anything more than God," she said, deep eyes like shining pools, her little face etched in pain. "Why do I do this?"

Our little group surrounded her, laid hands on her, and prayed. I covered her shoulder with my hand, but in my heart I doused her with the faithfulness of Ruth, the boldness of Esther, the courage of Deborah. She bowed her head, still crying softly, as my palm settled over springy coils of dark hair. And I prayed her mind might be filled with the discerning wisdom of Abigail, the conviction of Rahab, the desperate hunger of Hannah. As she straightened, I slid my hand slowly down to rest between bony shoulder-blades, begging God to help me teach this precious girl that it's those lessons from messy seasons that show us what progress really looks like.

I reassured her, sharing stories of my own, showing her she's not alone. Because the truth is, life has a tendency to pile up on all of us, no matter who we are. And sometimes we don't even notice how cluttered things have gotten—spiritually or emotionally—until a hard reset highlights harder truths.

House-sitting this weekend kept that message marinating long after the church doors closed. The home I'm in right now is clean and clear of chaos. It's delightfully decorated. Spacious and serene. It's beautiful...but it's not mine. It represents a different journey, tells the story of a life I haven't lived. It holds its own troubles, tucked away in drawers and cabinets, lingering in closet corners.

And while I'm grateful to be here, trusted again to protect and preserve my friend's sanctuary, I'm just as grateful these days for my own—no matter how humble, no matter how harried. Because between the laundry and the dishes, there are my daughters. Beneath the dust and the dirt, there is a dignity that shines. And it's in that place, that magic middle ground where nothing is perfect but everything is mine, that I remember how to find purpose in everyday moments...purpose in the mess.

*****

I don’t have it all figured out—not in my house or my career. Not in my schedule. Not in my heart. But this week? It reminded me that clarity doesn’t always come in grand revelation. Sometimes it’s waiting quietly in a clean bedroom, saving space for a sacred conversation, a still moment when the noise dies down and the quiet reminds you that you’re not as lost as you feel.

I'm still finishing the book. Still wrangling words between appointments and dishes and too many browser tabs. And maybe I’ll finish cleaning the rest of the house next week. Or maybe I won’t. Either way, I'll keep coming back to this trusted truth, right in the middle of my mess: I’m not failing. I’m just not finished becoming.

If that’s where you are too—struggling through the day with a cluttered heart, a half-finished to-do list, and a soul still under construction, I want you to know that you're not behind. You're not broken. I promise you're right on time, even if it doesn't seem like it.

There is purpose in the mess, my friend, and you already have everything you need to..

I'm craving less noise lately. More meaning. Less mindless scrolling. More genuine connection. If you're feeling that too, I'd love to welcome you to a better, more gently way to keep in touch. That's why I've started a weekly roundup just for your inbox. And the best part? It's simple—and free.