It All Comes Out in the Wash, Doesn't It?

The August rain on the roof woke me this morning with its soothing rhythm. Knowing that more hot days are ahead, I was even more grateful for the wet coolness.

It is Wednesday and, for me, wash day. As I went about gathering up the laundry from each room and sorting them out into color piles I found Anna's striped shirt.

Ah, yes, Anna's day of pink striped top "matched" with the navy and aqua striped pants.... I had said nothing about it and even allowed her to go to the store in the outrageous outfit. I repeated to myself over and over that it was more important that she had made the effort to get herself dressed on her own and that SHE liked her outfit than what I thought of it. This kind of self-control on my part is a major victory for me.

Tut tut, I reflect, how many people do I know who probably wish they could weigh in on MY choice of dress each day? Let it go, Sarah, let it go.

And there are Truman's piles of big-boy underwear. Twice as many again as there "should" be... a reminder that potty training is another practice in patience. And, my, how many pairs of socks can one little boy go through? And where are the mates anyhow? He has obviously been taking off his shoes in the sandbox again, but not his stockings. I notice that if you go through his shirts day by day you can tell precisely what he ate for all three meals. But there is that little boy smell and those little boy sizes that bring me back to pure happiness.

Jon's clothing are a pile in and of themselves. Deeply soiled from tree cutting or digging about, or sanding wood or painting or changing oil or any other number of Jon's activities. His clothes are a testament of his work ethic: just get it done. Don't stop to blow your nose on a Kleenex when you have on a perfectly good old shirt for wiping. Don't stop to rinse your hands between each chore or worry about that big spill on your pant leg. The thing is to get the job done and done well. I must always check for screws and bolts, markers, pens, or money in his pockets. They are always full of curious things that I often label as "unidentifiable." But then, there are his Sunday clothes. They smell of his cologne. His whole pile testifies that "A man lives here." I smile that, God willing, his piles will be around for me to sort for another 60 years or so.

And then, of course, there are my clothes. Predictable, plain and work-a-day. Nothing in this pile any longer that is labled "dry clean only" or "hand wash." I found in one pocket a stash of tissues and remembered that the day I wore those pants I had been reading a tender account of George Washington at Valley Forge to Anna during Truman's nap time. As I read, teary-eyed through the sentences, Anna put her arm around me and snuggled close. "Even great men need God to help them, don't they, Mom?" "Yes, Anna, there are times in life when even the greatest and the smallest of us have no where else to turn." We sat comfortably in our quiet moment as we looked at the print of George Washington kneeling at Valley Forge that I recently hung on our living room wall in our little home at the far end of an Island in Puget Sound seemingly miles away from any sort of trouble.

I took the tissues out of the pocket and threw the jeans into the appropriate pile. Wednesday is wash day at my house.