It used to be one or two loads a week. No big deal. I was the only one who relied on it. Affected by it.
Then I got married.
And my laundry-load doubled.
I felt it. I felt the difference between one person’s clothes and two.
I remember standing in the kitchen—a newlywed whose single life had been adventurous, gallivanting across the globe… now feeling domesticated and chained to dishes, laundry, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming. Tears mingled with dish soap. Grumbling mixed with prayer.
Then we had kids. Four of ’em. In a year and a half.
Plus the five we fostered in that same time.
My load was now for six.
IT.
NEVER.
ENDS.
Then we invited another sweet boy to live with us.
So now we’re seven.
Seven mouths to feed. Seven sets of dishes to wash. Seven sets of laundry—clothes, bedding, bathroom towels…
Seven.
It may be the perfect number.
But it sure means a lot of laundry.
But as I stood as a newlywed in that kitchen, tears streaming, heart pouring… God showed me something.
This was worship.
This was setting aside my agenda, serving with my time and energy, the ones God had given me as sweet and precious gifts. Those dishes were a gift. And I could begrudge it or embrace it.
I chose the embrace.
I choose the embrace.
The embrace of what a mountain-high pile of laundry means… it means the love and presence of six priceless people living within the safety and holy fragrance of my home.
It means the smiles that warm my heart, the birthday decorations that adorn my walls, the hand-drawn pictures of me on the fridge, the hugs that squeeze out joy, all clothed in that pile.
It’s an offering.
The very least I can do to express how grateful I am, how blessed to have clothes to wash. How privileged I am to have the ones in my home for whom I wash. A way of thanking and praising God for His grace and mercy in my life.
Not a burden.
Laundry is a gift.
