Clutter means something different to each of us. To keep it simple for this article, it’s whatever hogs space from things of real value in our homes and hearts. Here’s a story of my cluttered heart and how I found a safe place (and partner) to declutter with.

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Marc’s warmth had already begun melting my icy heart, but when I finally saw his bachelor pad, it gave me a cold shock I’ll never forget.

It’s early summer, 2002, when I hear my future husband’s name for the first time. I’m back living with my parents, church-planting pastors in Minneapolis, MN. I’m used to them meeting with people interested in the church, but this time, after Dad’s coffee meet-up, he makes sure I’m within earshot as he and Mom chat about this young man, Marc, who feels led to our church since relocating from North Dakota.

Me? I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’ve just begun digging out from the rubble of my crumbled, young life. College age, but no longer in college; recently single, reeling from the last gut-punch of a relationship; I’ve sworn to rebuild in the next decade, but a “NO BOYS ALOUD” sign hangs over the worksite.

Marc is likely just another self-obsessed man (seeking a submissive woman to enslave), but since the whole family suffered slow strangulation with the former guy, both parents see him as a “breath of fresh air” and take turns tossing his name into casual conversation, hoping to tempt me.

No matter how smitten my parents are, I’m not interested. . . then I have my own encounter.

At a church home group on Father’s Day, my dad introduces me to a tall, clean-cut, well-dressed stranger. He sits down opposite to me in the living room and fidgets with the Bible on his lap. Hiding under my baseball cap, I listen when it’s his turn to share. Something in his voice soothes me, but I keep my head down and stare at the floor.

An hour later, everyone’s on the deck sharing a potluck lunch. I’m alone inside, happily occupied with keeping red Jell-O juice from seeping into my casserole noodles when I hear, “So, your dad told me you play soccer.” I peek out from under my cap to see Marc approaching the kitchen table.

Would it be overly rude to ignore his question and excuse myself?

Too late. He’s already plopped down to await my answer. I keep my head down and my reply brief, but he askes another question. It’s obvious he’s either missed my “NO BOYS ALOUD” vibe, or more probable, he’s ignored it. . . just like a man to disregard a woman’s wishes.

I give another short answer. This goes on another few rounds. Disarmed by his ease and clever humor, I relax enough to ask a few questions of my own. Personal histories, future goals, and banter swirl together, concocting an effortless conversation cocktail.

I guess he’s not as self-obsessed as I’d assumed.

Fast friends with my family, it’s easy to have Marc around (and he makes sure to be around a lot). I don’t have to tell myself to laugh, and, better yet, I don’t have to tell him Jesus is worth everything. Marc isn’t a romantic interest to me yet, but Jesus exuding from him is irresistible.

Another month passes; I watch his character closely and confide in him as a trusted friend. The pot sweetens each day, but still blinded by fear and cynicism, I don’t see the gift God is trying to give me.

In my mind, there’s still a big mystery: how and where does he live?

One humid July afternoon, he offers me a ride home from a church function but stops by his place to change clothes. He invites me to come up.

On approach to his door, I psych myself up in preparation to have my low expectations realized. I’m twenty years old—my experience in guy’s apartments and dorms hasn’t been good. I imagine the fridge houses an experimental ecosystem, a gaming system is the centerpiece and a boxspring supporting the mattress on the floor seems like an upgrade.

We walk in and, to my surprise, the air scent is fresh (not stench masked by man-spray). Looking through the galley kitchen, what I see makes my heart skip a beat.

Pictures hanging on the walls?! A styled dining area?! Who is this man?

Vintage tin Coca-Cola signs hang above a 50’s diner table surrounded by four vinyl chairs; it’s a charming first impression. I walk through to the living room where a nice leather sofa, antique rocking chair and end tables create a cozy seating area. Across from the couch is a TV stand with a small box television and stereo. No gaming system.

Marc hasn’t excused himself to change yet—so I excuse myself to use (check out) the bathroom. The toilet has nothing to fear on (or below) it. After washing, I notice the hand towel has been, not only recently washed, but also scented and fluffed with fabric softener!

Finally, the bedroom. There’s a queen size bed on a boxspring and a bedframe, but when he opens the closet to grab a fresh shirt, the piéce de résistance is revealed. I see a rod, full of matching wood hangers, where both shirts and pants hang unwrinkled (not heaped in a pile to rot until reworn). The shelf above is full of containers and storage boxes. Each one is LABELED.

I leave the bedroom to give him privacy and make my way to the sofa where I sit on my hands. This is a serious moment—not because his apartment is wonderfully clean and organized—it’s serious because I realize, from his character to his closet (whether he’s aware of it or not), his lifestyle is move-in ready.

He’s prepared to welcome a wife.

Up to this point, I’ve played coy whenever he mentions a future with me. I like having Marc’s attention, but I still house so much hurt from my past, I’m afraid to trust what I’m feeling. Shortly after visiting his place, I have a dream he’s proposed to another woman and I hysterically cry out to him, “You can’t marry her! You’re supposed to marry me!”

The dream wakes me from sleep and to what the Spirit within me is saying: I’ve fallen in love with Marc and know in my knower, he’s God’s match for me. Just like Jesus, Marc is a gentleman—he won’t push or force his way in—he’ll wait to be invited and welcomed.

To love with more than words, I need my heart decluttered to make room for him.

It sobers me to think how close I came to missing Marc. We may desire God’s new good thing, we may be asking Him for it, but if we haven’t made space in our hearts, our schedules, or our lives, we risk missing it, or once having it, losing it all. Jesus put it this way:

“Neither do people pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst; the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.”

Matthew 9: 17 (NIV)

Both the vessel and the gift are preserved. In this case, I feel like the vessel and Marc is the gift. God is full of mercy, not wanting anyone to miss what He has in store. He’s the God of second chances. I exchange the clutter of fear to make room for God’s hope and faith to take the leap with Marc.

We confess our love on a damp September evening, he proposes on a snowy January night and we enter a covenant that summer, on a bright August morning.

The physical mimics the spiritual; as two mysteriously become one in marriage, the space we make for the other fills in. As you probably guessed, I’d been deeply injured by some of the men in my life so I didn’t believe another man could ever bring healing—I was wrong. Jesus is a man.

This is where understanding the profound reality, beauty and safety of Jesus’ blood covenant would have been so helpful. . . but I’m only now learning and will share more in the future.

Decluttering means to get clutter out. We can clean-out the house using any method we like, but there’s only one way to clean-out the heart: through the blood of Jesus Christ. He’s not a method, He’s Himself. On the cross, He dealt with the clutter of sin that kept us estranged from our good Father.

Jesus didn’t leave us on our own, the Holy Spirit was sent to be our safe place and partner to declutter with! Take a moment right now to ask the Holy Spirit to reveal any clutter that’s keeping you from enjoying the life Jesus already purchased for you.

Whether cluttered or not, the appearance of our home and the condition of our heart do not represent our identity in Christ. God’s love for us is unchangeable, but He proved His love by making room to welcome us into His family. Now we have the opportunity to partner with Him and make room for all that’s in His heart to give us.

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In the language of love, “I decluttered for you,” isn’t a phrase that ignites passion, but it makes the passion possible. A choice to declutter is an act of love that clears space for who and what we value.

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