The Joy of Cleaning

I could get joy from cleaning my house.
Is that even feasible, practical?
House cleaning is a chore, a vicious animal
In which I try to find an excuse
For skipping this or next week
No matter how freakily the excuse would creak.
Now I say ‘joy’ out of cleaning my house?

Well, am I trying to squeeze joy out of nothing
‘Cause I can’t find any joy in this world of constant bumping?

This was true, however, no matter how dingy.
I enjoyed the clean house because I didn’t clean,
But Roomba, a dumb robot but smart enough to clean,
Did. The only thing I did was to make the house filthy.

This is exactly what the sacraments of Reconciliation is all about.
I sin, but Confession cleanses me without any of my efforts.
The only thing I do is to make myself a dirty and unclean snout.
I see clean me and is joyous.
I got joy because I don’t do anything to avoid my spiritual drought.
The not-so-dumb priest does just like Rooma does for my house!

This shouldn’t be a joy of cleaning
But a joy of doing nothing?
Then why can’t I enjoy Confession and rarely do?
This is one of many mysteries of faith with hue.

Now, dumb Roomba is gone.
Holy Confession is gone.
I clean my house myself
‘Cause she says smiling, “I like the clean house”.
Then I clean my sins myself?
‘Cause she says giggling, “I love the clean man.”?

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