However, don't the most beautiful things rise from dirt, filth, ashes; flowers, children, the phoenix? Aren't the most beautiful moments of life a result of imperfect people doing imperfect things? Like an attempt at cooking burnt cookies, cleaning noisy toys, or creating lopsided artwork. I love finding rocks in pockets, cars in shoes, tiny socks on the living room floor. I enjoy reminders of the invaluable and eternal work I have undertaken, and my fleeting influence upon and, quite frankly, from, those that mean the most to me. Keeping an orderly and clean home creates peace, but if cleaning a home destroys the joy and growth I have forgotten why I do it in the first place.
I am certain our Father in Heaven rejoices in our failed attempts or striving to achieve the impossible. He pats us on the head and, if we play nicely with others, we receive the praise we all crave, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into my rest." (Now, does that mean someone else will do the vacuuming?)