Chapter Two: The Discipline of Order

There is a rhythm to cleanliness that few ever perceive. To most, order is the absence of chaos. To me, it is a song. Every motion, every sequence of movement—broom, rag, water, step—is a verse in a quiet hymn of restoration. A lazy janitor rushes through his tasks as though escaping them. A disciplined janitor enters his work as though entering prayer. For work without order is vanity, but order without discipline is illusion. I have found that to keep a building clean, I must first keep my own soul in order. Without inward discipline, outward tidiness becomes nothing more than performance.

I begin each night’s work the same way—by standing still. I let the noise of the day drain out of me. I look around the room before I touch anything. I listen to what it needs. Sometimes it speaks in stains, sometimes in scent, sometimes in silence. The mop bucket sits there like an altar. The broom, the vacuum, the rags—these are my instruments, my tools of renewal. But I must approach them with calm mind and clean intention. If I rush, I spill. If I resent, I miss. If I complain, I lose the quiet that allows me to see. Order begins within. How can I restore peace to a place if I bring chaos in my heart?

The discipline of order is not about perfectionism; it is about alignment. The floor must align with the wall, the mop stroke with the light, the man with his calling. I wipe in straight lines because crooked strokes produce crooked thoughts. When my supplies are neatly arranged, my spirit feels whole. When they are scattered, I feel fragmented. Is that not true of the human condition? We scatter our priorities, we misplace our peace, and then wonder why nothing seems clean anymore. I have come to believe that cleaning a room is a form of confession. Each stain confronted is a truth faced. Each mess restored is a wrong forgiven.

Some nights, I am tempted to cut corners. The temptation always begins with a whisper: “No one will notice.” But that is the voice of decay, not diligence. If I skip one task tonight, I’ll skip two tomorrow. Dust multiplies where excuses take root. That is how neglect begins—not in laziness, but in justification. And so I push myself to do what I would be proud to have inspected by angels. For though men may never see my labor, God does. As it is written, “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men” (Colossians 3:23, KJV). That verse is the truest job description a janitor will ever need.

I have learned to see discipline not as a burden, but as a freedom. The disciplined man is never frantic, because he has already chosen his order. He knows where everything goes, and everything knows his hand. My vacuum cords are coiled the same way every night. My bottles are labeled and placed by height and use. My rags are sorted—blue for sinks, orange for desks, and green for toilets. Some might call that obsessive; I call it worship. When my tools are in order, my thoughts follow. When my thoughts are in order, my life obeys. Order is not oppression. It is liberty arranged by wisdom.

Cleaning teaches time itself. I have learned that if I start one task too early, it ruins the next. The floor must be swept before it is mopped, the dust wiped before the vacuum hums, the chemicals given time to dwell before they can lift the grime. Every step has its season. The impatient man destroys what patience could perfect. How many lives have been ruined by rushing what required soaking? Even bleach takes time to whiten. Even prayer takes silence to deepen. There are no shortcuts to purity, not in marble floors and not in human hearts.

I greet people by name because names restore dignity. I smile because cleanliness begins in spirit. When morale falters, dirt multiplies faster. A bright word can do more than a bottle of disinfectant. A kind tone can polish the air itself. What good is a spotless desk if the heart sitting behind it festers?

Sometimes I think the greatest disorder of our time is spiritual clutter. Too many voices, too many screens, too little stillness. The janitor’s life, if lived rightly, is an antidote to that chaos. My routine is my monastery. My nightly rounds are a liturgy of motion and purpose. When I fill the mop bucket, I think of baptism. When I sweep the hall, I think of pilgrimage. When I wipe a mirror, I think of the soul reflecting its Maker. And when I finish, standing in a room that smells of lemon and effort, I whisper a quiet prayer: “Lord, keep my inner world this clean.”

True order requires love. Not the kind of love that feels, but the kind that acts. Love for one’s work, one’s coworkers, one’s Creator. A janitor who does not love will grow bitter, but a janitor who loves will grow holy. For love turns duty into joy. When I find a forgotten smudge, I smile. It gives me something to restore. When I notice a crooked frame, I straighten it as if adjusting the world. These small corrections are acts of mercy. They say, “This place still matters.” And in a world that forgets meaning, that message is sacred.

So the discipline of order becomes, in the end, the discipline of devotion. The more I perfect my craft, the more my craft perfects me. Cleanliness becomes conscience. Order becomes prayer. Discipline becomes peace. The mop and broom, once mere tools, have become my companions in sanctity. Together we declare, night after night, that chaos does not win. The Lord reigns still, even in the janitor’s closet.

And when I walk out into the dawn, the building glistening behind me, I feel as though I have rehearsed a truth the world has forgotten—that Heaven itself will be spotless when we arrive, not because angels never spill, but because love never stops cleaning.