I came around the corner and had to laugh out loud at the sight. My recently-made bed had a big bump in it. A throw pillow was knocked into a different position, but it was the crazy bedhead sticking out from the duvet that revealed the culprit. My ten year old, in my cozy bed, happy as a clam.

Later in the morning while bemoaning the way items were thrown all about the house as normal household items often are—dishes on the counter and dining room table, socks left on the living room couch and hair accessories on my office desk—I felt mounting frustration at the way playing pick-up is never truly completed. I recalled being so diligent this morning at getting up and making my bed because, really, I love a well-made bed. Everything else can be in chaos but if my bed is made I feel like I have a shot at finding some measure of control in my day. That is, until Liv climbed right in there and made herself at home. I later returned to the room and found, interestingly enough, an Adobe Photoshop manual open and face down (as though it was halfway read that morning), a magazine rack pulled out, my bedside drawer wide open (and rifled through) and a flashlight twisted into two pieces, sans batteries, right under the covers. Well, at least she had a good time in there. I hope she also enjoyed putting it all back because that’s what I insisted she do a bit later.

I remember loving my parents’ bed. It was so big. And so clean and neat. And nothing felt out of place in their room. And Mom was in there. I loved it. It was pretty much the polar opposite to my own room, which explains why us kids would throw ourselves on that bed at every opportunity. At least once I remember Mom telling us that we’d like our own rooms much more if we’d make the beds, too. Such wisdom, my mom. And I’ll never forget it. Years and years later I’ve made it a habit to figure out what makes a bed look so inviting. Cozy, thick covers. The right amount of pillows. A sheet turned back to welcome you in after a long hard day. A clean, comfortable place to lay down your head that night and rest in peace.

I don’t make up my bed everyday. But when I do I can feel the way it contrasts the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink and the blot of hardened toothpaste in the bathroom sink and the gerbil cage that always invites cleaning in my office. It’s a small stand against evidence of the Fall in my house, a smidgen of redemption in the ever-present work of life with a family in this space we call home.