Afterword: What Wasn’t Swept Into the Book

(Appendix: Things Left Unmopped)

There are always a few corners left untouched, even after the best cleaning. The mop has its reach, the rag its limits, and the janitor his time. So this is the part I couldn’t quite fit into the main book—not because it didn’t belong, but because it lingered in the quiet places between paragraphs. These are the things left unmopped.

On Sacred Privacy and the Moral Duty of Trash

If the floors and mirrors are the body of a building, then the trash is its memory. It is the most intimate, unguarded part of human life—the evidence of what people wish forgotten. Inside a trash can are the confessions of a day: old receipts, coffee cups, wrappers from rushed lunches, the torn corner of a note never sent. These things tell stories more honestly than words ever do.

That is why a janitor must treat trash as sacred. It is not ours to interpret, nor to expose. When someone throws something away, they are entrusting it to silence. And we, the silent ones, are bound by honor to protect that trust. If ever the Lord gave a profession that practices discretion daily, it is ours. We handle the refuse of the world and must never become refuse ourselves.

I have seen in a bag of trash the faint dignity of a person who tried. A coffee cup with encouraging words scribbled on it. A child’s drawing folded and thrown away but not forgotten by God. So I throw it out with gentleness. Because there is holiness even in disposal. Every trash bag tied with care becomes a small funeral for what once served its purpose. The world moves on, but I linger just long enough to say, “Thank you for what you were.”

On Time, Patience, and the Clock

There’s a peculiar law in janitorial work: the slower you go, the faster you finish. It makes no logical sense, yet it’s true. Hurry scatters. Patience gathers.

When you rush, time becomes your adversary. Every tick of the clock feels like judgment. But when you slow down—intentionally, prayerfully—the seconds seem to stretch open like a door, and suddenly there’s enough. Enough time to breathe, enough time to notice, enough time to do the job right.

I’ve tested this many nights. When I felt behind, I would stop, breathe, and deliberately move slower. Almost miraculously, the work caught up to me. The building itself seemed to relax. The vacuum hums steadier, the mop glides easier, and even the clock seems to forget to count.

It’s a paradox, but it’s also a spiritual truth: time bends for the patient. The Lord Himself moves unhurried and still accomplishes all. Maybe what we call time is just the world’s way of measuring faith.

The impatient man ages quickly. The patient man grows wise. To him, the minutes become companions instead of tyrants. When you learn to master your own tempo, you discover the eternal in the ordinary.

So when I say “the more patience you have, the more time you have,” I mean it literally. Patience rewrites the rhythm of the night. It grants you ownership of every moment instead of slavery to it.

On What Was Left Unsaid

Some things never made it into the chapters—perhaps because they’re still being written in my life. I could have written more about the senses of the building: how its sounds reveal its health, how its scent betrays its mood, how the temperature of a room can whisper whether peace or tension lives there. I could have written about the unspoken relationships between the janitor and the unseen—the Lord, the angels, the lingering spirits of those who once passed through these halls. But maybe that’s for another time.

I could have written about how baking soda feels like prayer powder, absorbing the day’s heaviness and leaving behind lightness that can’t be seen but can be felt. Or about how every doorknob I polish feels like I’m shining a small sun that someone else will soon grasp without knowing why it feels hopeful. But to explain these things too fully might remove their mystery, and janitors live by mystery.

The Blessing, the Laughter, and the Quiet Farewell

If you’ve read this far, you already understand that cleaning is not just about mops and mirrors—it’s about mercy. Still, I hope you also found room to laugh. Because without laughter, holiness becomes heavy, and holiness is meant to be light.

Laughter, prayer, and patience are all detergents of the soul. They cleanse what neither bleach nor broom can touch.

So here is my blessing:
May you find joy in the unseen things.
May your patience stretch your time.
May your secret labors become your loudest prayers.
May your work sparkle, not for applause, but for peace.
And when the lights go out and the last door is locked, may you hear, as I sometimes do, the building whisper back—thank you.

Then, laugh softly to yourself, nod toward heaven, and step into the night.
Because though the shift is over, the ministry goes on.