Call in the biologists. There's a new life force growing in my son's bedroom. And it
has intelligence.
It was created long ago when David contracted the disease Messitis, which caused him to
suffer the loss of those important brain cells specifically designed to recognize what is
and what isn't a mess. He no longer has the ability, for example, to notice that something
is lying on the floor in front of him. So it's not his fault that toys and dirty shirts
and smelly socks and school papers and McDonald's Happy Meal boxes and plastic packaging
from what used to be new toys and dead spiders are overtaking his room. How he gets from
his bed to the door without tripping is a mystery to me.
He does clean his room, however -- every Saturday, when we threaten him with no more
ice cream ever for the rest of his life until we can see his floor.
On Saturdays, he disappears into the mess, and gradually, when I walk by, I can see
more and more of him emerging from the pile. I never see any stuff end up in the garbage,
so I have no idea where he puts it all. But I don't ask. And I don't dare look too closely
to find out, lest by peering under the bed or into the closet I might give the mess an
opportunity to spring out and smother me with dead socks. And when my husband would come
looking for me after sensing my absence for some time, all he'd find left of me would be
an arm, perhaps a leg sticking out from under the rubble of a room-cleaning gone awry.
I'm sure I was never this messy when I was a kid (although perhaps Messitis obliterated
the memory from my brain cells), but I can't get too frustrated with David. His messes
have reminded me that sometimes my personal life has gotten pretty messy. Whose hasn't?
It's a disease we all inherited from Grandpa Adam and Grandma Eve.
The brain cells that store the memories of what God instills in us take a nap and we
fail to notice until too late that our messes have taken on a life of their own. They grow
and take up more and more space. They also smother those who come to close. When I've
asked Jesus Christ for his help with the messes, they've gotten cleaned up, that is, to
the degree I let him throw out the garbage. Messy arguments with my husband, for example.
The more I let Jesus take over, the sooner we're hugging again.
Messitis has a cure. The medicine usually doesn't taste good. It's called
"repentence" and admitting we need God's help. But the more we avail ourselves
of it, the more straightened out our lives become. And if we keep working at it, we can
get to the point where we can actually walk through our lives with less tripping! And
other people become more willing to move in close.
Like at my house on Saturday nights. I can kiss David good-night in his bed
without fear that his shirt sleeves may reach up and grab me around my ankles. But
tonight, David gets kissed in the hallway again.
