Clearing the Porch: What We Clean, We Confront

“By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures.”
— Proverbs 24:3-4 (NIV)

This morning, I woke up with no agenda. No plan. No rhythm to follow. But somehow, I found myself deep cleaning my porches—front and back.

My husband helped with the back before heading in to shower after work. I handled the front porch alone. I wasn’t in a rush. I took my time, prayed, meditated. Not just on the dirt or clutter, but on what I might be clearing spiritually.

I had drawn a bath for myself earlier. Shaved. Did my lashes. Moisturized my hair and laid my edges. I’d gotten beautiful for the day—not because I had anywhere to be, but because I wanted to feel like myself again. And maybe… to prepare.

What if that beauty ritual was a kind of armor? A kind of ceremony?

What if cleaning wasn’t just cleaning?
What if it was ancestral work—pulling things out of dark corners and dragging them into the light?
What if it was spiritual warfare disguised as a broom and a bucket?

The house I live in didn’t start with me. It came with memories—some tender, some traumatizing. It carried Sunday dinners, backyard cousins, laughter. It also carried silence, secrets, and pain.

And instead of leaving it full of everything the generations before me couldn’t or wouldn’t face, I’ve decided:
I will.

I’ll clean the porch.
I’ll clear the bones.
I’ll sweep out the whispers that linger in the walls—those voices that say, “Don’t speak,” “Respect your elders,” “Stay small,” “Be obedient even when it hurts.”

I’ll lose family before I lose myself. I’ll lose blood before I pass this pain to my children.

Because the world will be hard enough for them.
Home should be soft.

Home should not mirror the brutality of the outside. It should be the sanctuary we crawl into when the world tries to flatten us.

So today, I cleaned the porch.
And maybe, just maybe, I cleared something more than dirt..