Saturday mornings in our home tend to begin with the whir of vacuum cleaners, the lemony scent of Murphy’s wood soap , and the predictable chorus of “Who left this here?” from one of our kids. This week, our mission was clear: clean the house before my brother’s visit. The incentive? A mix of familial pride, the joy of welcoming someone we love, and a few mystery bribes still to be determined.
Our four kids dove into the task with surprising enthusiasm. My oldest, who inherited my love for organization and task completion, made the garage his domain. I’d casually mentioned earlier in the week that we should clean it out, and apparently that seed took root. He was unstoppable, sorting tools, sweeping corners, and directing his siblings like a foreman at a holy construction site.
Watching my children work, I felt a quiet joy. Not just because the garage was finally walkable, but because I glimpsed something deeper at work: a desire to prepare. There’s something profoundly human about that. When we love someone, we want to make ready a place for them.
That, in a nutshell, is the spiritual life.
Preparation as a Form of Love
We often think of preparation as drudgery, checking boxes before the “real thing” begins. But in the Christian life, preparation is part of the encounter. The work of getting ready disposes our souls to receive grace. It’s the difference between rushing through confession before Easter and slowly, intentionally, letting God sweep through the clutter of our hearts.
When my son spent the morning organizing the garage, he wasn’t just cleaning a space; he was learning what it means to make room. That same impulse animates our life of prayer. When we clear distractions, habits, and anxieties that crowd out God, we’re doing spiritual housecleaning.
Saint John Vianney once wrote, “Prayer is nothing else but union with God.” And union requires preparation. You can’t receive someone if there’s no space for them to dwell. Just as we sweep floors before a guest arrives, we must let the Holy Spirit sweep through our souls before we can truly welcome Christ.
From Scrubbing Floors to Scrubbing Souls
I’ve written before about my love of cleaning. It’s almost comical how much satisfaction I get from decluttering a messy room or scrubbing a stubborn stain. But spiritual clutter? That’s harder. It hides behind distractions, excuses, and half-formed good intentions.
In Interior Castle, Saint Teresa of Avila describes the soul as “a castle made of a single diamond or very clear crystal.” It’s a beautiful image, but also a convicting one. Diamonds may be strong, but they gather dust if neglected. The same is true of the soul.
Regular confession, daily prayer, and small acts of virtue are our spiritual dusters and mops. When I ignore them, I start to feel that subtle film of restlessness and detachment build up. But when I take time to “deep clean” the soul through examination of conscience and prayer, I rediscover peace. As Saint Teresa famously said, “The Lord walks among the pots and pans.” Holiness isn’t found only in quiet chapels; it’s found in ordinary tasks done with extraordinary love.
The Saturday of the Soul
There’s a reason the Church gives us liturgical seasons of preparation: Advent before Christmas, Lent before Easter. Even ordinary time has its rhythm of Sundays and weekdays, work and rest. Preparation is baked into the DNA of the faith.
Saturday, too, carries symbolic weight. It’s the day between the Cross and the Resurrection, the quiet, hidden day when Christ rested in the tomb and the disciples waited in uncertainty. Spiritually speaking, much of our life feels like Holy Saturday, the in-between of work and rest, longing and fulfillment, waiting and hope.
Our weekly chores echo that mystery. Every Saturday, as we clean and order our home, we’re practicing the virtue of readiness—readying our hearts for Sunday worship, for family, for grace. In a culture that glorifies distraction, the simple act of cleaning can become a sacred rhythm of attentiveness.
Saint Benedict’s motto, ora et labora (“pray and work”), captures this beautifully. We don’t pray instead of working, and we don’t work apart from prayer. The goal is integration, a life where the mop and the Rosary aren’t opposites but companions.
Chores as a School of Virtue
When my parents made my siblings and me do chores growing up, I didn’t realize they were teaching us more than responsibility—they were teaching virtue. Ownership. Diligence. Humility. Gratitude. All virtues that prepare the soul for love.
Chores done for love of another, even something as simple as loading the dishwasher without being asked, become small sacraments of grace. Saint Martha of Bethany, my patron and spiritual companion, understood this deeply. She was the ultimate hostess, the one bustling around to prepare for Jesus’ visit. Her mistake wasn’t that she worked too hard; it was that she forgot why she was working. Jesus didn’t rebuke her for serving. He redirected her toward the heart of service: love anchored in presence.
As Pope Francis said in a 2021 homily, “Works of service and charity are never detached from the principle of all our action: listening to the Word of the Lord.” When our chores lose that inner orientation, they become hollow. But when done in love, even sweeping a floor becomes an act of worship.
Family Prayer and the Cleansing Power of Habit
Over the past few months, our family has been praying Night Prayer together from the Liturgy of the Hours. It’s not always serene. Our younger kids have ADHD, and bedtime often feels like wrangling a fleet of caffeinated squirrels. Yet, it’s become a cherished rhythm.
Prayer, like cleaning, forms habits of order. It’s the spiritual version of tidying up before bed. We gather, confess our sins, thank God for the day, and entrust our rest to His care. Little by little, that nightly discipline shapes our home. It reminds us that holiness grows not in grand gestures but in small, consistent acts of love.
And just as we teach our children to pick up after themselves, God teaches us to take spiritual responsibility. Grace doesn’t replace effort; it perfects it. The Catechism says that the Holy Spirit “makes the Church the temple of the living God” (CCC 797). If our souls are temples, then prayer and virtue are the upkeep—the maintenance plan for divine indwelling.
When Preparation Becomes Presence
There’s a fine line between preparation and perfectionism. As someone with OCD tendencies, I know how easily the desire for order can slip into control. I’ve scrubbed sinks to a shine while ignoring the still, small voice calling me to simply be with God.
Saint Martha reminds me that the goal of preparation is presence. We prepare not for the sake of spotless floors or flawless prayer routines, but to make room for Christ. Once He enters, the focus shifts from readiness to relationship.
Sometimes that means setting aside the to-do list to sit at His feet, like Mary did. Other times, it means inviting Him into the cleaning itself, letting the rhythmic motion of a broom or the quiet hum of the dishwasher become a prayer of thanksgiving.
The point isn’t whether you’re working or resting, cleaning or praying. It’s whether you’re doing it with God.
The Joy of a Ready Heart
As the house finally came together and my kids admired their handiwork, I thought about how preparation itself had become joyful. They weren’t just anticipating my brother’s arrival; they were celebrating the love that motivated their work. And that’s the heart of holiness: joyful preparation for the Beloved.
The saints remind us that our souls, like our homes, need regular upkeep. Dust gathers. Clutter creeps in. But through prayer, confession, and small acts of love, we rediscover the radiance that God placed in us from the beginning.
So this Saturday, when you’re tempted to grumble about cleaning, remember: you’re doing more than tidying a room. You’re practicing readiness. You’re learning to love through preparation. You’re giving God a space to dwell.
Or as Saint Teresa of Avila might say, the Lord really does walk among the pots and pans.
