Does God Care About My First-World Problems?
(Because moving into this apartment has been a nightmare)
I knew it was too good to be true. I knew behind the fantastic amenities, the dark wood floors, the granite counter tops, and the large balcony there lurked a disappointing discovery. I was moving into my apartment sight-unseen, though I had been shown an identical model unit. Since this complex is relatively new, large, and in the suburbs, I trusted that my unit would be essentially the same as what I saw in the model.
Indeed the dimensions were the same. The fixtures were the same. But the level of cleanliness? Not the same. Not even remotely close.
As it turns out, the previous occupant of my unit had at least one cat. I found all variety of cat remnants in my “new” apartment, which, in the words of the property manager, “was for sure cleaned, because we clean every apartment between occupants.” Tufts of hair were all about the floors and in the cabinets, kitty litter was buried in the bedroom and closet carpets, a cat medicine bottle was left in the pantry (the identifying clue), and several small gatherings of feline excrement were hidden in the closet and under the washer and dryer.
“How on— *sneeze* —earth did — *snort* — they leave it — *cough* — this filthy??” I cried aloud to no one, except God, and perhaps my new adjoining neighbors.
I am both horribly allergic to and deeply repulsed by cats. I have often repeated a maxim that I call Tolander’s Law: It is impossible to have both a cat and a clean house.
Many protest, “My cat is different. My cat is very clean.”
Your cat defecates in a sand box. Your cat walks on the furniture and counters.
Disgusting.
So I was forced to enlist the help of some family members to clean the apartment before I started moving my belongings in. After cleaning as much as we could, I took a vacuum bag full of cat hair and kitty litter and all other manner of filth and dumped it out on the sidewalk in front of the leasing agent’s office and asked, “Is this what passes for ‘definitely cleaned??’” The poor girl stammered a nervous apology. I was less than gracious, I admit, but I was also at the end of my rope after moving all my personal belongings into an apartment I can’t even live in yet — I won’t be able to move in until the carpets have been shampooed or steam cleaned and the air ducts cleared of cat dander.
Some friends responded to my dismay with admonishment:
“You know it’s not that bad,” they said.
“But my landlord is in violation of the Texas Property Code,” I protested.
“But there are other people who have it worse than you,” they said, as though I hadn’t already engaged in the sort of Pharisaically-mandated privilege awareness exercises that are supposed to accompany every inconvenience in the life of an otherwise highly-blessed person.
I did think, Aren’t I lucky to have a place to live? This a first-world problem. I’ve slept in worse conditions in other places around the world. I’ve seen true third-world poverty firsthand. I know people in my own neighborhood who have much bigger problems than this. This isn’t a big deal.
Such thoughts are supposed to provide the afflicted with something resembling contentment, and the assurance that no matter how frustrating your situation may be there is someone, somewhere, who has it worse. That perspective is supposed to be a consolation. Frankly, it wasn’t much of a consolation to me.
The well-meaning encouragements of friends to maintain perspective on my privilege simply served the same function as the Law: They served to point out a standard I am not meeting. The sentiment beneath them was, “If you were a better or more mature person you would feel such-and-such, and say so-and-so, and do this-and-that.”
One friend suggested I pray about it. God doesn’t care about my stupid apartment, I thought.
Yet as I was carrying boxes up the two flights of stairs to my allergen-filled apartment yesterday, I asked Him: Lord — do You care about this? I’m pissed off and I think I have a right to be. I don’t really know what to ask You for about it. Maybe You could get them to give me a rent concession?
As He often does, God brought to my mind a verse of Scripture I’d memorized years ago:
“Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him because he cares for you.” — 1 Peter 5:6–7
Yes, God cares about my stupid apartment. He cares that I’m allergic to cats. He cares that my apartment complex is jerking me around. He cares about all of the inconveniences in my life that I think are too small to bother Him about. Nothing has escaped his attention.
But, as the truism goes, the heart of the matter is always a matter of the heart. What God cares about more is that, whatever the outcome of this situation with my apartment, I’ve conducted myself with humility and integrity and grace. Do I deserve this inconvenience? No. Does that matter? Not really. The code of conduct remains the same.
