I feel a spiritual homelessness as I sit and cry on the kitchen floor.

            “Don’t look back.  Look ahead,” my Mom used to say, when she was out of other words to say, as I suffered through the dirty mud of life.

            Yet, these days, all I seem to do is look back, look back, look back.  Dear, Sweet, Jesus.

            Yet, it’s not just about miserable stuff.  There were ups-and-downs.  Either way, looking back can set me to tears. 

            Owning up to this setback, I wipe myself off of the kitchen floor.  I change my mental direction and stand tall.

            Then, I look back at the times when I used to look ahead, especially as a young mother. My heart was right-side-up then, filled with joy as my spirit anchored to my home.

            There were days, so many days in the summertime, back then, thirty years or so ago, when I raced home from work to find Mom and my young daughter sitting in the yard of my home, waiting for me.  I’d drag a briefcase and camera from the car, give kisses and hugs hello, then sink into a lawn chair. It was rush, rush, rush, take a breath, then rush, rush, rush some more, every day filled with work, work, work.

            Mom would rattle on about her usual routine, end with notes of my daughter’s afternoon bath, shampoo, and change of clean clothes, as she cared for her while I was at work in an office all day.  One time, as we sat under the shade of a dogwood tree, the remnants of their playtime lay about us – a bucket of mud, shovel, toy dishes – all used to make mud pies.         

            Freshly bathed, brown waves of hair, soft, damp curls touching her cheeks, my daughter suddenly tucked the lacey hem of her blue sundress up at the ribbon-tied waist, kicked off shoes, and in a flash, stomped into the squishy mud in the bucket.

            She stood soldier-still, proud, yet carefree and content, in that bucket.  I snatched my camera; her bright, blue eyes and big grin stared straight into the lens.

            “Oh no!  She just had a bath!”  Mom scolded, and jumped up to save my daughter, (who ignored rules of cleanliness and stood in mud pie leftovers), from this messy predicament.   Immediately, I fell to looking back, and frowned about Mom’s cleanliness obsession. I looked back at teenage years when I was quite occupied every Saturday morning with household chores.  I agonized over the dusting, vacuuming, and stripping of bed sheets carried out every week.  Nag, nag, nag, went Mom with strict rules.  Push, push, push, went her anxiety onto me with thundering fear, until the last bed was made, the last blouse hung up, the bath towels folded, dishes dried, garbage thrown, and kitchen swept.  I did enough housework to last a lifetime back then, I’d later think, begrudgingly doing drudgery in my own home.

            My thoughts turned ahead – my daughter getting dirty in a bucket of mud was the grandest sight to behold.  In a way, it released me from God-fearing thoughts about those teenage years under the rule of Mom.  The dirty mud of life was not all about anxious suffering.  It can be about freedom to find a way and muddle through one’s own bucket of mud.

            “It’s okay!  Don’t worry about it!” I said to Mom, as I joyfully laughed and clicked my camera.

            “This photo is for you, sweetheart.  A bucket of mud to look back on.  Know that you don’t always have to follow rules – trust yourself.  Go boldly, choose to get dirty, step into that bucket, stand proud in the ups-and-downs,” I said, as my joyous spirit anchored to my beautiful little girl.