She daily grasps to control the uncontrolled. Cleaning from the anger. Organizing out of frustration. As she scrubs and puts away, the sweetest and most accommodating is fighting for her life. So her meaningless tasks must become meaningful. Or else the truth of her day-to-day is only glorified busywork.
And the truth is demoralizing.
Why we must honor the meekest of vocation. Because she is the least. Because she stands as the most in need. The housewife or the nursemaid will naturally bleed out from the drudgery of duty. Unless we bandage her offerings up with significance, balm of the greatest good. Then there is meaning to her sacrifice and suffering.
Every sacrifice needs meaning. Or else it is just death.
Darkened widow secrets whisper that domesticity is the nervous twitch of empty meaning. God forbid her idle hands. So she busies, not with gossip or slander. Good for her. But instead with devilish sweeping microbes of dust. Enchanted scouring that discolored surface. Obsessing in her Pine Sol dreams. He numbed her brain to critical thought. Made her suck upon his dopamine, satisfying her spotless sights and smells. Cleansing and exfoliating, he white-wash redecorates her already-dead routine. This thrill of the mundane is all she can stomach. The hedonistic tedious has trained her tolerance for this moment.
Which is why we must honor the lowly and humble. Because her sacrifice is greater than she knows. Feeding the infants, teaching the foolish. She gave her life to the ones who won’t deserve it. Who won’t love her back. That’s never why she did it, for love or acceptance. It’s natural, it’s nature, it’s unavoidable. These purposes will silently overtake her meaning. Eventually. If not, immediately.
The domestic is his demonic smokescreen. He will sink in and devour every purpose outside of her own. She flirts with an uncontrollable monster who cannot control his hunger. Eating everything in his way. Including her life. Gulping down everything that he can touch with her hands. Including her own dreams. He makes his own plans. Consuming a life that she never knew she possessed.
And twisted, we praise his compelling purpose. She gives thanks for his fanatical meaning. For a time it possesses her. Until a time, if she realizes. She can’t stand the silence. That overtook her insides. If she notices, she can’t hear herself speak. Over the noises from his distraction. She may one day regret, that she gave thanks for the chaos. Who led her away.
Why would she let it happen.
Masked. Veiled. Hidden. Devil Domestic. Who devours, who leaves the dead to wash his dishes. A blood-sucking vampire, who cheers to crushing her creativity. Who feeds upon her abstract ideas. Who excretes a tolerant, tender person, that won’t challenge his plans. While he’s binging on her blood.
Bless his heart?
The domestic demon. Poor girl. She has been fooled into exposing her wrist. For a kiss. Poor girl. She has been taught to give herself away. For the pleasure of the stay-in-home monster. Poor girl. Hopefully, one day she will not awaken. Regretting to whom she lost her virginity.
Sleep soundly, dear domestic.
Lest you awaken the demons you mistook for God.
Stay quiet, joyful sister.
Or else your battle will begin.
Slumber deep, sweet mama.
Until our Lord returns, because you are blessed.
Cindy Koch 