Chapter One: The Calling of Cleanliness

There is a moment, every evening, when the building exhales. The last footsteps fade down the corridor, the hum of conversation dissolves, and the lights settle into their gentle electric hush. That is when my shift begins. It is not the start of the night; it is the restoration of order. The day leaves behind its evidence—crumbs of hurry, fingerprints of ambition, small traces of living and striving—and I come not merely to remove them, but to reconcile them. I do not see a mess; I see a memory. I do not see dirt; I see what life has left behind on its way through. The world calls it janitorial work. I call it the ministry of renewal.

It would be easy to think of cleaning as labor for the hands alone, but anyone who has done it long enough knows that the heart is involved too. To clean well, you must first care. You must believe that the condition of a place influences the condition of its people. Disorder breeds irritation; decay breeds discouragement. But order—true order, the kind born from diligence and reverence—gives peace. The Bible says, “Let all things be done decently and in order” (1 Corinthians 14:40, KJV). When I read that verse, I hear my job description written by the Holy Spirit Himself. God works through structure. He separated light from darkness, waters from dry land, chaos from creation. And so when I scrub a floor or polish a pane of glass until it catches the light, I am not simply maintaining a building—I am participating, in my small way, in the order of God.

There are those who confuse a janitor with a custodian or a maintenance worker, and though the titles may overlap, the spirit behind them does not. A maintenance worker fixes what is broken; a custodian preserves what is whole. A janitor, though, is entrusted with something deeper—the unseen harmony of the environment itself. We are the keepers of peace, the stewards of atmosphere, the quiet souls who arrive when others have gone home. The custodian may hold the keys, but the janitor holds the conscience of the building. It is not pride that drives me to say this; it is awareness. The environment a person enters each morning sets the tone for their entire day, and that tone, whether calm or chaotic, often depends on me.

This is why morale is not the responsibility of management alone. It is the unseen duty of the janitor. When people walk into a building that smells clean, looks orderly, and feels cared for, something inside them steadies. Their posture changes. Their mood lifts. The air itself becomes cooperative. I have learned that a janitor is as much a morale officer as he is a cleaner. The mop and the rag are tools, yes, but so are kindness, humor, and attentiveness. The secret of good morale is not in grand speeches but in small consistencies—floors that always shine, bathrooms that always smell fresh, and greetings that are always sincere.

I have found ways to lift the spirit of the building without saying a word. One day I placed a dry-erase board in a hallway and wrote a single word at the top: “Inspire.” I left a marker next to it. The next morning, tenants began adding their thoughts, quotes, and little drawings. Over time it became a conversation wall—a mirror of encouragement that changed daily. Another time, when several tenants wanted to display flyers or announcements, I set up a glass display cabinet near the entrance so they could share their news. When the garage became crowded, I made personalized parking signs for the ones who needed them most. None of these were in my job description, but they were written somewhere deeper—in my understanding that people flourish where they feel noticed.

The morale of a workplace depends not on the size of the paycheck, but on the condition of the space. A cluttered building creates a cluttered spirit. A building that sparkles, by contrast, lifts everyone who enters. The rule is simple: if it doesn’t sparkle, it’s substandard. The sparkle is not vanity—it is reassurance. It says, “Someone cares.” It tells the tired mind that the world still runs on attention and effort. A streak-free window can restore faith in unseen diligence. A polished floor can remind a discouraged worker that beauty survives routine.

There are nights when fatigue whispers that it’s enough to do the minimum. The quick wipe-down, the “good enough” bathroom, the shortcut that nobody will ever notice. And sometimes, I’ve taken it. I’ve walked away from a restroom knowing I could have done better. And though no one else said a word, I felt it inside—that quiet conviction that cleanliness and conscience cannot be separated. The next night, I do it right. Not because someone told me to, but because the work itself deserves it. My standard is not perfection—it is peace. Peace with my own sense of duty, peace with the Lord who gave me hands and health to serve.

I believe cleanliness carries a spiritual charge. A clean space invites clarity. A well-ordered environment welcomes wisdom. Even prayer feels easier in a place that’s been tended with care. And when I pray for the people in my building—as I often do—I ask not only for their safety and success, but for their joy. I pray for the workers to have peace, for their families to be well, for the clients they serve to be blessed. When you clean a place with that kind of spirit, the building itself seems to respond. The air feels softer. The light seems kinder. It’s as though the walls remember the prayer.

Some people spend their lives chasing titles, but I am content to keep keys. A janitor with faith and attention can change an atmosphere faster than a manager with a memo. My tools are simple—brooms, sprays, rags, and faith—but through them I keep balance in motion. The Lord knows who does the unseen work, and He honors it. “Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men” (Colossians 3:23, KJV). That verse has followed me through every corridor I’ve cleaned. It reminds me that I do not work for applause. I work for the One who sees in secret.

In time, every janitor learns to listen. Buildings speak. They groan, hum, and sigh. They have their own rhythm—the way pipes rattle when water begins to flow, the faint whine of the elevator as it climbs or descends, the thump in the garage that tells me someone has come in after hours. I know these sounds the way a shepherd knows his flock. When something changes, I notice. That attentiveness—physical, moral, and spiritual—is the foundation of this entire profession.

So when I say I am a janitor, I mean I am a keeper of peace, a guardian of morale, and a servant of order. I clean not just what is seen, but what is felt. I wipe away the day’s weariness. I polish the dullness of discouragement. I make space for the next sunrise to begin on a clean foundation. To some, this is menial. To me, it is holy.

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Morale Tips

A clean building is a happy building. Morale rises when people sense that someone has already cared for the space before they arrived. When you keep things bright and welcoming, you remind everyone that stability still exists.

Listen for what your clients need, even when they don’t say it. Sometimes it’s a small fix, sometimes it’s a small gesture—a board to share ideas, a display for their notices, or a simple “good morning” when they walk in. Morale doesn’t need management meetings; it needs consistency, attentiveness, and grace.

When you feel tired or unnoticed, remember that the peace of dozens of others depends on your faithfulness. The work you do quietly tonight will shape someone’s mood tomorrow. That is power worth honoring.

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Prayer

Lord Jesus, let the work of my hands reflect the order of Your creation.
Teach me to serve not only with strength but with joy.
Bless every person who walks these halls with peace, health, and encouragement.
May every room I clean invite Your presence, and every task I finish bring honor to You.
Let me be a keeper of light in places where no one looks, and let my work preach goodness without words.
Amen.

I have learned that dirt is not my enemy; it is my teacher. It reminds me that everything left unattended will return to dust. Floors collect footprints, not because they are flawed, but because they were meant to bear the weight of life. Soap and water become sacraments in my hands, agents of redemption for surfaces weary from use. I have scrubbed mirrors clouded by months of neglect until they shone like truth itself—reminding me that the soul, too, must be polished daily if it wishes to reflect the light of God. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10, KJV). How could any janitor not feel the sacred echo in those words?

People often imagine that cleaning is mindless work, but the truth is, it demands more attention than most professions. A distracted worker may leave a smudge, a streak, a residue invisible to hurried eyes but glaring to the trained. I can tell, by the sheen of a countertop, whether the cleaner was too strong or the rag too wet. I can sense, even before I bend down, whether the floor has been mopped with dirty water or clean. The spirit of the room testifies. The air feels heavy when corners are neglected, lighter when every surface has been tended with care. Cleanliness is not only seen; it is felt. It changes the spirit of a place. Does God not move most freely where things are in order?

Some nights, I am the last one left in the building. Everyone else has gone home—the officers, the clerks, the managers. The silence becomes thick and holy. I hear the elevator cables groan like tired lungs, and the soft rumble of the HVAC becomes a hymn of constancy. I sweep through corridors where flags hang in still air, and I feel the strange honor of tending to a place where serious things are done by day. To clean where law is upheld, where justice is spoken, where the machinery of a nation breathes—that is no small calling. I am the unseen keeper of its peace. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then order is next to justice.

There are rules I have come to live by. One of them is this: If it doesn’t sparkle, it’s substandard. Some might call that perfectionism, but I call it respect. Respect for the people who will walk these halls tomorrow, for the eyes that will glance into these mirrors, for the hands that will rest on these desks. A janitor who does not take pride in his work has no business holding the key to any door. For what is a key, if not trust made tangible? I hold keys to rooms of power, and yet I enter them only to serve. I clean what others soil, and I leave without a trace. There is humility in that—a kind that polishes the soul more than any brass handle.

Over time, I began to realize that a building is alive. It breathes through vents, it speaks through creaks and clanks, it weeps through leaks in the roof. Every night it tells me stories through sound—the slow drip of a pipe, the whisper of a loose door hinge, the echo of a late-closing elevator. I can tell when someone’s still inside, when a door has been left ajar, when a storm outside has pressed its mood into the windows. These things are not coincidences; they are relationships. A good janitor listens to the building as a shepherd listens to his flock. He knows which parts are healthy and which parts are in pain.

Baking soda, I discovered, can sanctify a room in a way few chemicals can. When I sprinkle it over carpet before vacuuming, it doesn’t just remove odor—it changes the spirit of the space. It makes the room feel lighter, truer, almost reborn. And live plants—they breathe goodness into the air, unlike the plastic kind that only gather dust and mimic life without possessing it. The living respond to life. A true janitor surrounds himself with what breathes, not what merely decorates.

But the greatest lesson I have learned is that morale is more important than polish. If the people who occupy a place feel disheartened, no amount of wax will make the floors shine with life. A clean room without hope is just an empty shell. I have seen offices where everything gleamed but no one smiled—and others where the floors were scuffed, yet laughter lingered in the air. So I clean not only for the eyes, but for the spirit of those who enter. A janitor’s truest work is invisible: to preserve peace, to maintain morale, to make others feel that the world is still worth tidying.

When the night ends and I hang my keys on the hook, I sometimes wonder—who will clean the earth itself when all men are done? Who will wipe the tears from the walls of history, or sweep the ashes of time? Perhaps that is why God made janitors: to remind the world that restoration is still possible, that decay is never final, and that somewhere, someone still cares enough to make it right. To be a janitor is to believe that every stain can be lifted, that no filth is permanent, and that holiness begins with a rag and a willing heart.

And so I continue, night after night, to wash the world in small portions. It is slow, humble work, but it is the closest thing to prayer I know. For as I clean these rooms, God cleans me. The more faithfully I polish the visible, the more He purifies the unseen. I do not clean for wages, though wages come. I clean because I must. Because to restore order in a disordered world is the work of the redeemed. And when I leave a place shining—silent, fragrant, and ready for a new day—I hear a still, small voice within me whisper, “Well done.”