A Slightly Sticky Blessing

“There’s a fine line between hospitality and chaos—and sometimes it’s drawn in jam.”

The door swung open before I'd even reached the second knock, catching me mid-motion, my knuckles still poised in the air like punctuation left hanging in a sentence.

“—and then she put her little paw right on his hand, like she was praying too! Oh, hi there!”

Melanie Henderson beamed from the doorway, framed in the glow of mid-morning light and the sort of vibrant domestic disarray that seemed to orbit her constantly. One socked foot skidded slightly on the polished floorboards, her balance teetering but never quite tipping. Her strawberry-blonde hair was gathered in what might, by generous estimation, have once been a ponytail—now mostly a collection of cheerful wisps escaping in all directions like sparks from a firework.

A streak of vivid purple ran diagonally across her oversized T-shirt, evidence of either an enthusiastic toddler art session or an ambush by a rogue marker. She radiated that uniquely kinetic energy possessed by mothers of young children—equal parts fatigue, good humour, and unstoppable motion. You could feel it in the air, as if even the light in the hallway bent slightly to accommodate her.

“Come in, come in, sorry about the mess, but honestly it's been a morning already!”

She was already backing down the hall before we'd fully crossed the threshold, hands gesturing us in with the enthusiastic insistence of a cruise director ushering passengers toward a lifeboat drill. I followed carefully, my steps deliberate, my handbag tucked firmly against my side like a life raft.

Inside, the house bloomed into colour and texture—an almost theatrical set of motherhood in full swing. Turquoise and coral throws clung to every chair and lounge cushion, some artfully draped, others clinging on as though they’d been thrown mid-emergency. A parade of plush animals wound its way across the floor, a stuffed menagerie marching in uneven lines through the hallway, their small, glassy eyes bearing witness to unscheduled adventures.

The coffee table was a museum of recent events: a half-eaten banana grown limp at the edges, several open colouring books bearing the frantic scribbles of a determined small artist, and an uncapped glue stick standing far too close to what I was almost certain were her scriptures.

“Just shove the books aside and make yourselves comfortable!” Melanie called from the kitchen, her voice travelling with the kinetic bounce of someone juggling half a dozen tasks while trying not to burn the toast. “I'll get you something warm to drink—cocoa? I've got those fancy mini marshmallows from Woolies that the kids haven't discovered yet!”

“I'm perfectly fine, really,” I called back, adjusting my grip on my bag as if it might offer me some structural reinforcement. The sheer hum of the household—the noise, the colour, the spinning of unseen cogs—made me yearn, just faintly, for the silent order of my own home, where things stayed exactly where I’d left them and no one accidentally coloured the furniture.

Evelyn, of course, was unfazed. She glided to the nearest available seat with that subtle elegance she possessed even in the most unpredictable environments, easing onto the edge of a floral armchair as though it had been placed just so for her arrival. Her scarf was already unwinding itself gently, resting in her lap like a cooperative house pet.

“Cocoa sounds absolutely lovely, thank you,” she said, her voice effortlessly at home.

I perched beside her on the sofa, balancing myself with the posture of a woman who had learned over many years to sit without fully relaxing, just in case the cushion beneath her turned out to be sticky, or structural, or hiding a plastic pony. My spine aligned itself with piano-recital discipline, my knees together, feet politely tucked.

My gaze, of its own accord, began cataloguing the room’s details: the Salt Lake Temple magnet anchoring a missionary photo on the fridge—yes, her cousin from Utah; the kitchen counter bearing a precarious tower of bowls and plates, daring gravity to intervene; the edge of the bench glistening with something unidentifiable but undeniably adhesive. Whether jam or glue, it caught the light with an almost triumphant gleam, like a banner raised over a battlefield of domestic life.

Melanie reappeared from the kitchen moments later, balancing steaming mugs in both hands and still mid-sentence, the thread of her story unbroken by our presence, as though we’d simply been inserted into the middle of a well-established soliloquy.

“Honestly, I don't know what I'd do without the power of prayer in my daily life,” she was saying, weaving her way around a plastic xylophone and what might have been a rogue juice box. She navigated the space with the natural grace of someone accustomed to improvising choreography across a constantly shifting terrain. “Just last week I thought I'd completely lost the car keys and I said a proper prayer about it, and you'll never guess where I found them—in the freezer! The actual freezer, sitting right next to the ice cream! Who does something like that? Must've been the baby's influence. Or probably mine, if I'm being honest. These days it's probably me doing the ridiculous things.”

She handed Evelyn a ceramic mug bearing the bold proclamation Keep Calm and Call the Elders, her face alight with a kind of giddy hospitality. My own mug followed a moment later—Hot Cocoa is my Testimony looped across it in swirling font—and I accepted it with a small nod of thanks, trying to match her bright energy with a smile that felt warm but not performative.

I lowered the mug carefully onto the table, only to realise that the “coaster” beneath it was, in fact, a biscuit—perfectly round, slightly iced, and very much edible. I hesitated for the briefest moment, then decided to leave it in place. Better to preserve the illusion than risk the awkwardness of drawing attention to it. One could admire her improvisational flair without needing to acknowledge it aloud.

Melanie flopped onto the rug with the abandon of someone who no longer thought in terms of chairs. Her limbs folded beneath her in loose, habitual motion, one socked foot poking out from beneath her trackpants, toe tapping a silent rhythm—perhaps a lullaby, perhaps the background hum of her never-ending to-do list.

“And I absolutely have to tell you both about the baptism,” she continued, eyes shining with the kind of unfiltered joy that made you feel slightly unworthy to witness it, as though you’d stumbled into a sacred moment dressed for errands. “It's changed everything in this house, and I mean everything. The light feels different somehow—softer, warmer, more peaceful. Even the cat's been calmer since then, I swear she's sleeping more soundly. Must be feeling the Spirit's influence too.”

Evelyn chuckled softly, her hands curled gently around her mug as though anchoring herself to its warmth. There was something so composed in her posture, as if the chaos of the room bent slightly to accommodate her serenity.

“That's absolutely wonderful to hear, Melanie.”

“It really is,” I added, adjusting slightly on the firm edge of the couch cushion. The floral upholstery resisted my movement with a surprising tenacity, as though trying to keep me upright and proper in the face of domestic entropy. I allowed my voice a note of encouragement, hoping to gently nudge us toward more structured ground. “And how have you been settling in to your Gospel Principles class?”

“Oh, I absolutely love it,” Melanie nodded, and the messy bun on the back of her head quivered with the force of her agreement. “Though I know I talk far too much during the lessons. I'm completely aware that I do. But Brother Jeffries says it's enthusiasm, not a problem, and he's just so incredibly kind about it. Did you know he bakes? He actually brought us homemade muffins last week—lemon poppyseed ones that were absolutely divine. The kids practically licked the plate clean afterwards. Well, not literally licked it, obviously. Just, you know what I mean. Figuratively speaking.”

She paused for breath, took a small triumphant sip of cocoa, then leaned forward with a conspiratorial glint that shimmered like candlelight on water.

“Though honestly, knowing my Ella, I wouldn't put it past her to have actually licked the plate when I wasn't looking.”

There was a brief pause in the conversational flow—the first true silence since we’d arrived—and I recognised the opportunity at once, grasping it like a lifeline tossed to a drifting swimmer.

“Well, we're so glad to see how spiritually strong you're feeling in your new faith,” I began, aiming for a tone that felt both heartfelt and purposeful. “We do have a couple more sisters we need to visit this morning, so perhaps we should—”

“Oh, of course, of course!” she interrupted, her hand lifting in a bright flutter that set her bangles jingling like wind chimes in a sudden gust. “But I absolutely have to tell you about what happened just last night—my youngest, little Maddie—she actually prayed with the cat! Put her tiny hand right on Tinkerbell's head and said, as serious as anything, 'Dear Heavenly Father, please bless Tinkerbell so she stops scratching the good couch.' Isn't that just the most precious thing you've ever heard?”

“It absolutely is,” Evelyn said, her voice full of genuine warmth, her face brightening with that sincere delight she always seemed able to summon for such moments. The kind that said she wasn't just humouring our hostess—she was truly charmed.

I summoned a smile, though I could feel the familiar throb beginning behind my temples—the subtle pressure that came whenever I sensed we were sliding off the rails of my carefully plotted schedule.

“That's truly lovely. Children really do teach us about pure faith, don't they?”

“They absolutely do!” Melanie beamed, her eyes wide with the kind of evangelical joy that made you feel like you’d just endorsed not only her theology but her parenting philosophy as well. “They're like little prophets walking around the house. Except considerably messier than the actual prophets probably were. And definitely louder. But they have such pure, uncomplicated hearts!”

Evelyn looked perfectly at ease, her cocoa now half-finished, one leg crossed over the other in quiet comfort. She appeared entirely unhurried, her whole posture gently radiating that this was exactly where we needed to be, for as long as it took. Meanwhile, I glanced discreetly at my watch, its face offering the news I had already suspected: we were meant to be halfway to the next house by now.

Without a word, I reached into my handbag and pulled out the laminated schedule. Its surface was faintly creased, worn at the edges, and now bore the unmistakable marks of a day that hadn’t gone quite according to plan. I opened it with a flick, scanning the neat rows of text that had once filled me with a sense of control. Now, the letters blurred slightly under my gaze.

We were behind. Again. Just like last time.

With a breath held in my throat, I closed it softly and tucked it away, careful to make no sound that might betray my growing sense of urgency.

The room was beginning to close in on me, in that particular way that clutter sometimes could—not messy in the careless sense, but teeming with a kind of vibrant, relentless life. A wicker basket beside the couch spilled over with half-folded laundry, some of it still tangled with child-sized socks and the occasional rogue bib. A crayon drawing, possibly a rainbow or possibly a flaming house, clung to the front window via a lone strip of tired masking tape. Yesterday’s bread bag slouched open on the sideboard like a party guest that had overstayed its welcome.

Everywhere I looked, something else called for attention—bright, bold, inescapably present. It wasn’t untidiness so much as a kind of visual volume turned up too loud. And it made it harder to keep my thoughts anchored in the spiritual intention of the visit.

I caught myself wondering, not without a flash of guilt, whether Melanie had properly washed the mugs before serving our drinks. There was a slight tackiness to the handle of mine—residual cocoa? Dried jam? Something less identifiable? I gave myself a mental slap for the thought.

The Spirit can dwell anywhere, I reminded myself firmly. Even here. Especially here, where there's so much love and faith.

I took another sip of the cocoa—lukewarm now, and almost syrupy in its sweetness. The vanilla was artificial, the sugar cloying, but I swallowed without comment. Politeness was the smallest price for kindness received, and this visit was not about me or my beverage preferences.

Out of the corner of my eye, the precarious tower of dishes in the kitchen shifted fractionally in the light. Cups, bowls, plastic sippy lids stacked in what seemed a miraculous suspension of gravity. A streak of something orange—last night’s pasta, perhaps—clung defiantly to one bowl’s rim.

The urge to help rose fast and familiar. It was sharp, almost physical. Just a quick tidy. A small gesture. A quiet offer to wash the dishes while we spoke. I could clear the bench in ten minutes, wipe the surfaces properly. Restore some order.

But I stayed seated.

Offering might make her feel self-conscious. Or worse, she might accept.

And we’d be here another hour.

Eventually, after what felt like several more rounds of enthusiastic storytelling about various family members and their spiritual progress, Melanie suddenly clapped her hands together with the brisk snap of someone struck by a revelation.

“Oh! Before you go—wait, wait, don't move a muscle!”

She launched herself upright with the barely-contained energy of someone mid-party game, her socked feet slipping slightly on the polished laminate floor as she darted down the hallway, a blur of enthusiasm and motion. From the sounds emanating from her path—drawers being wrenched open, utensils clinking together in a domestic percussion section—it was clear she was rifling through the household's general miscellany, narrating the search aloud in cheerful murmurs.

Something metallic crashed to the floor—a ladle or possibly a soup spoon—its descent accompanied by the distinctive, hollow clang of inexpensive stainless steel striking laminate. Where most would have groaned or muttered something less than charitable, Melanie responded with an exuberant “Aha!” that ricocheted down the hallway like a small victory fanfare.

She reappeared moments later, triumphant and glowing with the kind of satisfaction usually reserved for puzzle-solvers or treasure hunters, holding aloft two garishly coloured refrigerator magnets as though they were relics of spiritual importance.

Mine was a searing lime green—nearly fluorescent—with bubbly, uneven lettering that read: “Choose the Right, Even When You're Tired.” Evelyn’s magnet glittered a blinding cerulean blue, catching the morning light and scattering it in cheerful specks, the Comic Sans-style message proclaiming: “I Can Do All Things Through Christ (Even School Runs).”

“These are for you!” Melanie beamed, extending them with open palms and a delight so unfiltered it felt almost sacred. “I made them last week in Relief Society crafts. Aren't they so wonderfully naff? I absolutely love them.”

Evelyn accepted hers with the ceremonial grace of someone being handed a christening goblet, her eyes wide with carefully calibrated gratitude. “Thank you so much, Melanie. I'll put it on my fridge the moment I get home.”

“Same here,” I said, aiming for a tone that straddled sincerity and diplomacy. But even to my own ears, my voice was a touch too light, a shade too measured. I slipped the magnet into my handbag with polite care—performing the small theatre of appreciation while mentally acknowledging that the lurid thing would likely vanish into a drawer, or the bin, before the week’s end.

“Well,” I said, rising and instinctively brushing imagined lint from my skirt, “we'll let you get back to your busy day. Thank you so much for the cocoa. And for the lovely magnet.”

“Oh, thank you both, thank you so much,” Melanie replied, already enveloping us in a flurry of warm, slightly sticky hugs that bore the unmistakable scent of hot chocolate, vanilla lotion, and possibly PVA glue. Her embraces were the kind that left behind a faint impression—not just on one's clothes but somewhere deeper, like a thumbprint pressed softly into the spirit.

“You two absolutely brighten my whole week, honestly. Please come by anytime you're in the neighbourhood, even if it's not official visiting teaching!”

We navigated the cheerful obstacle course of toys, laundry baskets and stray building blocks on our way to the door, the closing of which brought with it the soft jingle of some decorative item I hadn’t noticed earlier—bells or windchimes, most likely—marking our exit like a gentle exhalation from the house itself.

Outside, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. It came low and quiet, the kind of exhale that settles deep in the chest and brings with it the faintest loosening of tension, like the moment you peel off tight shoes at the end of a long day.

Evelyn turned toward me, her eyes gleaming with the amused clarity of someone who had been waiting patiently for the perfect moment to deliver a gentle tease.

“You didn’t particularly care for the cocoa.”

I gave her a long, dry look—a glance honed by decades of church callings and children’s squabbles. “I said absolutely nothing about the cocoa.”

“You said everything without using a single word.”

We walked in companionable silence toward the car, our feet crunching softly over the loose gravel of Melanie’s driveway. In the depths of my handbag, the garish lime green magnet jostled against my wallet and hand sanitiser with quiet insistence, a strange and persistent little reminder of the chaos we’d just left behind.

I still wasn’t entirely sure whether it would survive the journey home—or quietly disappear into the bin during one of my evening handbag purges, buried beneath receipts and peppermint wrappers with no witnesses to mourn its loss.