How to Be a Homemaker
biblical womanhood and all that jazz
home·mak·ing
/ˈhōmˌmākiNG/
noun: NORTH AMERICAN. The creation and management of a home, especially as a pleasant place in which to live.
1 /
“I think all women are called to be homemakers,” the woman on Instagram tells me. I say woman, but I mean girl, since she can not be more than 25 years old and I’ve got a good half-decade on her. She has shiny hair and shiny teeth and a shiny bathroom floor.
She makes addicting little reels on keeping her house clean. I am world’s worst housekeeper, so these are quite helpful to me. She shares which cleaning supplies she uses for which types of material, and how her cleaning routines work. She introduced me to the idea of getting rid of hard water stains with vinegar. Her daughter is always just out of frame, since she doesn’t like to show her kids’ faces on screen. They are healthy and cheerful; they don’t have screen time but prefer to play outdoors and get a perfectly whimsical amount of dirty.
Her walls are white. Her countertops are cottage core. Her sourdough scoring is immaculate.
I want to learn how to make my bathroom not constantly smell like a 7-year-old boy lives in my house, but instead I start to learn which type of music goes best with reels and that some women are able to bake with their kids without sugar getting all over their floor.
And then, finally, it comes: the post where she explains that it’s an honor to stay home with her kids, and that every mom should prioritize their housework above all. That developmentally, it’s essential for kids to have their mother in the home catering to their every whim 24/7. That moms who “outsource” cleaning or childcare are “outsourcing” their motherhood, and that—
Well. That’s when I slam the laptop shut.
2 /
My mom worked. In fact, my mom worked a lot. My mom was gone early in the morning and came back hauling papers to grade and emails to respond to. She came on exactly one field trip and volunteered at exactly zero class parties. My grandma made me breakfast many mornings, microwaving the syrup for my Eggo waffles.
“I couldn’t do what you do,” my mom told me the other day as she helped me wipe down my cabinets1. “Be home that much with the kids.” It bothered her 0% that I was the kid she was referring to. I told her the truth: I like my two days a week being in full stay-at-home mom mode. Our adventures to Costco and the library lighten my heart.
“Your house was my favorite to go to,” my sole remaining high school friend told me last time I saw her. “You guys always had the best snacks.” (This is undeniably true. What my mom lacked in classroom volunteer time, she made up for in zebra cakes.)
I never wore a sweater my mom made, or ate bread that she baked. She spent 8 hours a day teaching kids in an underprivileged school how to read. It wasn’t the type of school with air conditioning or field trips. Grown adults still stop her around Madison to thank her for being their fifth-grade teacher. She once gave my winter coat away to one of her students and had me go to school in the dead of winter without one because “I can take you to Kohl’s tonight, and that girl’s mom can’t. You can be cold for one day.”
Once, in seventh grade, a girl wrote a note to me that said horrible, awful things. I begged my mom to let me stay home from school. She obliged, and I spent the day drinking Diet Coke in her bed and watching Say Yes to the Dress reruns. When she got home from work, I told her about the girl at school. I honestly don’t even remember who the girl was or what she had said that upset me so much. But I do remember that my mom rubbed my hair.
I always had clean underwear. I always had a roof over my head. I always had Little Debbie. My mom let me stay home from school when a girl was mean to me and my cousin offered to TP her house the next day.
That was my home, is what I’m saying. That was the home that was made for me.
3 /
We need to get back to biblical womanhood.
By this I mean, we need to get back to radical yes’s to the Lord even when society looks down on them, a la Mary.
And we need to loudly sing songs of praise to our God who has freed us from captivity, a la Miriam.
And we need to work diligently within our gifts, a la the Psalm 31 woman.
And we need to fiercely fight for justice and truth, a la Judith. (Save the beheading, friend. These aren’t Old Testament times.)
And we need to return to God with our prayers of desperation again and again, a la Hannah.
And we need to raise up our children and grandchildren in the faith, a la Eunice and Lois to Timothy.
And we need to give of ourselves to our community with courage and gumption, a la Esther.
4 /
I’ve become obsessed with baking bread. I think more than anything I love the smell of it—the yeasty, buttery delight that fills my kitchen most weeks. I love kneading the dough, too; it gives me a tactile hobby that takes my eyes away from screens. Homemade sourdough makes a great gift, and having some on hand when friends drop by is always slightly impressive.
My kids’ breakfasts have also gotten fancier. I love to make cinnamon rolls from scratch, or stacks of pancakes with fried eggs in the cast iron skillet on Sunday mornings. The other day I got out the fancy bowls and let them add their own powdered sugar and strawberries and chocolate chips. They squealed with joy when they saw the spread, the Cheerios box in the pantry long forgotten.
There’s a rumble in my heart when I’m able to do these domestic tasks well. A little voice that whispers, well done, daughter. A small click of knowledge that this home and these souls were entrusted to me, and the weight of that burden being lifted from my shoulders. Keeping their home isn’t a yolk; it’s my greatest honor. Washing their sheets becomes a tangible sign of the deep, abiding love that pulses through my veins. I want to be the one that buys their Christmas jammies. I want to be the one that organizes their book baskets. I want to be the one that sweeps up their crumbs.
(I don’t want to be the one that folds their laundry, but fine. I guess I will be.)
5 /
There was a crisis. A crisis, like the kind where I had to be out of my house so that I could breathe. I drove to my best friend’s house at 9 PM, stopping on the way for a crunchwrap supreme. You know things are bad when you’re in the Taco Bell drive through.
Her house—forgive me, my friend—was a disaster. There were dishes piled a mile high in her sink and her daugther’s dinner was still scattered under the table. She didn’t apologize; she didn’t start picking up. She sat there on her couch with me while I ate a taco and cried. Her home was a refuge against the storm of my shitty, sad life. It was Rivendell, and Mordor had just kicked my ass.
She handed me a beer, and I stayed on that couch for a long time, letting the beauty of her home seep into my heart. A sanctuary where I was loved, cherished, and safe. She was the keeper of that space, the one who made it what it was, and I was a humble recipient of its gifts.
6 /
It is my firm belief that stories form our hearts and shape our souls. Stories are the places where we can question what we believe about the world; where we can hold it up to the light and see if it shines true. Books change us, and we change the world.
I wrote a novel that asks questions like this: what does loving a traumatized person do to your heart? What does love look like, unfiltered and with boots on the ground? What is grace? What is forgiveness? What is family, lost and found?
The woman-girl on Instagram wouldn’t like this, because it required many hours of me paying a daycare center to watch my daughter and waving goodbye to my kids as they got on a school bus. Some Saturday mornings I sat at a coffee shop while my husband took the kids swimming at the YMCA. Launching this book requires podcast interviews and guest posts. Some nights, my kitchen goes unswept.
And yet, she said this: we are all called to be homemakers. I find myself agreeing. My question to her is, what is home?
My home is this world; its wild and tangled borders flung open. My neighborhood is my home. My school district is my home. My country is my home. And I need to create and manage it, making it a pleasant place to live. Women are painting the landscape of our world, making it a home for all, through our gifts and Holy Spirit whispers. Instagram girl-woman wants to box in the idea of homemaking. I want to fling open its doors, banging the pot with a wooden spoon, calling all of us in.
Today’s acts of homemaking: folding four (sorry Mom) hampers of laundry, baking a sourdough Dutch baby, and paying a certified daycare center to watch my youngest daughter so that I can write a story for you.
Peace be with you, friend. I am a sinning, beloved homemaker, and so are you. May you make your home one of truth, beauty, and goodness. And may you remember that has nothing to do with how shiny your bathroom floor is.
How are you making a home today? Let me know in the comments.
Today, my first novel for adults is out in the world. It’s called The Funeral Ladies of Ellerie County and you can snag it wherever books are sold.
Armed with a Crock-Pot and a pile of recipes, a grandmother, her granddaughter, and a mysterious young man work to bring a community together in this uplifting novel for readers of The Chicken Sisters or Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club.
Esther Larson has been cooking for funerals in the Northwoods of Wisconsin for seventy years. Known locally as the “funeral ladies,” she and her cohort have worked hard to keep the mourners of Ellerie County fed—it is her firm belief that there is very little a warm casserole and a piece of cherry pie can’t fix. But, after falling for an internet scam that puts her home at risk, the proud Larson family matriarch is the one in need of help these days.
Iris, Esther’s whip-smart Gen Z granddaughter, would do anything for her family and her community. As she watches her friends and family move out of their lakeside town onto bigger and better things, Iris wonders why she feels so left behind in the place she is desperate to make her home. But when Cooper Welsh shows up, she finally starts to feel like she’s found the missing piece of her puzzle. Cooper is dealing with becoming a legal guardian to his younger half-sister after his beloved stepmother dies. While their celebrity-chef father is focused on his booming career and top-ranked television show, Cooper is still hurting from a public tragedy he witnessed last year as a paramedic and finding it hard to cope. With Iris in the gorgeous Ellerie County, though, he hopes he might finally find the home he’s been looking for.
It doesn’t seem like a community cookbook could possibly solve their problems, especially one where casseroles have their own section and cream of chicken soup mix is the most frequently used ingredient. But when you mix the can-do spirit of Midwestern grandmothers with the stubborn hope of a boy raised by food plus a dash of long-awaited forgiveness—things might just turn out okay.
On My Nightstand
Caroline by Sarah Miller: I’m loving this retelling of the Little House on the Prairie series through the eyes of the flawed-yet-strong mother, Caroline Ingalls.
Fentanyl Is Killing American Kids: Terrifying yet so, so important. There’s nothing I’m more afraid of as we look down the horizon towards the teen years than drug use.
Why Can’t Pastors Be Friends With Congregants?: I found this a really interesting piece, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. I’m not sure where I landed. Do you think priests/pastors should be friends with their direct congregants? I’m tempted to say yes, of course but this article brought up questions that made me ponder.
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I should also add that I’m not sure what space-time blackhole situation is at play here but I remember my house growing up as immaculate.
YES. I feel like I just did my own mic-drop after reading this, and it was empowering...so, thank you.
Especially since our livelihood is organic farming, and my hobbies are mostly old-timey (and always have been), I end up encountering a lot of this mindset...where homemaking gets boxed-in. And I've noticed that the box tends to be based on aesthetics. As a kid, sometimes I ate homecooked dinners, sometimes a microwaved TV dinner, and both made me feel loved and safe. My mom & dad owned a business together and made our community a better place, and our family was better for it - their long hours meant lots of time for me in the office, scribbling away in sketchbooks. This modern notion that we must constantly be doting on and serving - in that very aesthetic manner - feels like it takes something beautiful and makes it devoid of meaning.
All our situations are different, our homes are different, and "home" is a big place, like you said. True homemaking is a level of comfort and care that isn't confined to aesthetics, trends, or privilege (and, as I mention ad nauseum elsewhere, the current infrastructure of our society means that many heritage skills are, indeed, a privilege in our modern time).
People sometimes ask how I can get art done amidst everything else - to which I say, we have preschool and also a TV (isn't it funny how I feel guilt just writing that?). We also don't live as communally as folks in previous generations (or other parts of the world), so we don't have the arms and attention of aunties and other extended family readily available, oftentimes. I also think it's good for our kids to witness us homemaking in our areas of passion - writing, creating art, whatever it may be. Thank goodness for the variety of homemakers out there.
Love this Claire - my mom was a serial entrepreneur and CEO. I had twelve au pairs throughout my childhood. There were a lot of issues in my house but I was always proud of my mom and I've been grateful for the many ways I was able to see women thrive. I like the balance I'm currently striking -- running a business with my husband, both of us all hands on deck, the best preschool for part-time care, time for me to work creatively and professionally, and also do spontaneous library outings. I will never be the baking/sewing/organized mom but I hope I show my kids that being a mom can be fun, joyful, and authentic -- and that our home (filled with animals and kids) may not always be immaculate, but is loving and safe. That's the hope at least!