Recently I came across an old Facebook post I wrote well before I had children. It was laundry day, and I had felt the need to let the social-media world know that after a couple of weeks of neglect, I had my fair share of laundry to do — all five loads of it. If I could have patted my former self on the head through the computer, I would have. Five loads of laundry is chump change for me nowadays. With three little boys ages three and under, I am doing five loads of laundry every few days, not every few weeks.
Laundry is that glaring household task that seems to scream at me, “You will never be done!” If it’s not in the washer and dryer, it needs to be folded and put away, only for it to be time to wash another load. Most days I don’t give much thought to the meaning behind the laundry, or any other work I do in my home. I just do it. But then I have those days when the ordinariness of it all makes me feel small and insignificant.
All Work Is God’s Work
We were visiting with some friends over dessert not long ago and, as usual, the topic of conversation gradually moved to the joys and complexities of our callings. Everyone who was there, except me, works outside the home. I usually enjoy hearing about the work of my friends, and this time was no different.
As the dialogue moved further and further into spreadsheets that need organizing, clients demanding paperwork, and email inboxes never at zero, I felt myself having less and less to contribute.
I don’t deal in overflowing email inboxes; I deal in overflowing laundry baskets. I don’t have clients who need information from me; I have toddlers who need me to help them go to the bathroom. I don’t have spreadsheets that need organizing; I have closets that need organizing.