Laundry

This is real life. This tangled mess of mine and his and hers and hers and his is how our life is lived. Wrapped up in each other so tightly that some times we have to be forcefully pulled apart. Together we are weaved into the fabric that tells the story of our life. It's messy, complicated, all different sizes. I could not be ME without THEM. The people that make all this laundry that I wash and dry and fold over and over again. It's smoother now that the little people are older and they can help, but still I try to control it. Fold it like this, not that. That's the wrong way to fold towels, and I refold them the right way. But, really, it's just my selfish way of folding it. The way I think looks right. The way my Mom made me fold them. Really, truthfully, my going behind fixing the towels or the shirts or pants isn't important. It really isn't. Even though I somehow find peace in knowing all the towels are folded the right way and the linen closet is tidy. Even though I find it soothing to have everyone's shirts folded the same way and placed just so into all the drawers, it really is just a bandaid if all the other pieces of me are broken. And really, I am. Broken into bits. It's not a bad thing, it's just where I am. Being knit back together by the Master Weaver, relearning how to see beauty in the mundane. Being taught again that yes, it's wonderful to have an orderly and tidy home, but it's also wonderful that I live a messy life. I don't get those extra hours of kidlessness during the school year. We've chosen to homeschool and it's wonderful and awesome that I get to have my little people here growing and learning. It's not always the easy choice and the cleaning we do lasts for about 5 minutes before it's back to real life. I am learning that messy and complicated and hurting and broken and lost are how we grow and change and become better than we are. That in the act of weaving together my children into who they will be is not a task I take on alone. Their Daddy is there, in the morning coffee, the bedtime prayers and the weekend hikes. He walks with me and listens to my wondering if we can possibly accomplish well read, well learned, well raised children when I am as me as I am. He's there in the mix and I am glad. I am glad that when I bend over my buckets I see each of us. That Chris is here, his shirts needing to be mended and ironed. That I can see the girls growing tall and lovely and right out of little girl clothing into women's. That Holden is here, his knees still torn right out of his jeans and his shirts colored brown with dirt from toad catching and tree climbing. I can't help but be thankful that I'm not missing any of them. That my folding laundry can be a moment to stop and breathe prayers over them, remember to be thankful that my piles aren't smaller. Because I know people who have smaller laundry piles from loss and I cannot be upset any more that I have these piles of mine and his and hers and hers and his.