My husband proclaimed the other day upon arriving home from work, “I really love coming home to a messy house.” And he said it without sarcasm or disdain. With a smile on his face. Then walked on past to our bedroom to change into his jeans for the night.

Momentarily stunned, I considered the depth to which I dislike messes; I start my obsessive compulsive tidying most mornings before I’ve even had my coffee. For me, an orderly house is the first step to an orderly mind, and my over-cluttered mind can use all the help it can get.

But that day his comment forced me to pause and looked around at the mess. I saw no fewer than three pairs of our daughter’s shoes strewn across the entryway (Imelda Marcos in the making), and her empty lunch pail tossed next to them; I saw two or three dog-eared books on the floor, a half-read and completely crumpled paper on the couch and at least one cup containing that morning's coffee. And, oddly, I understood exactly what he meant. Our mess, if I looked beyond the, umm, messiness of it, was not junk – it was a sign of our life. Evidence of our daily routine, our small but bustling family, and our combined interests. It was our mess, and somehow I think, in my husband’s mind, evidence of our success for making this life for ourselves in the first place.

It’s moments like these when I’m especially glad I married him. To find a beautiful metaphor in an otherwise disorderly room sure beats my typical reaction of anxiety and panic. And the next morning I went straight for the coffee, and didn’t straighten a thing.