A Heavy Load

I've been thinking about the correlation between perspective and reality. Luckily, there is a very broad chasm between the two. The big picture is usually so much different than the little picture. But without the broader view, I wouldn't be able to face the narrow moments with joy--even enthusiasm.

I'll illustrate with the explanation of my laundry room. I actually love to do laundry because it's measurable improvement; that is, I can see that my hard work has actually made a difference. And so much of motherhood is the exact opposite of that.

When my fifth child was born, I had to come up with a new survival plan. What I've developed is: First attend to the loudest scream. Fix that. Then move to the next. The screaming cue is usually filled up-- not with children, but with the mundane tasks of the day.

Laundry is rarely at the top of that list, because with just two or three loads, most everyone can have clean underwear, pants, and a shirt. But to do all the laundry in the house at once (including sheets, blankets, coats, towels, etc.), nothing else can be screaming for my attention. And when does that ever happen?

Well, never, actually.

Over the Christmas holiday, I got really close. I had just two loads left. As the pile of clean clothes on the laundry room counter receded, a glimmer of perspective came into view once again.

There are two important reminders in my laundry room--its only decor.

First, there is a sign that says, "Families and laundry are eternal". This feels so true, even though it's not true about the laundry. (Eventually I'll die, and the laundry won't follow me. But it might be what kills me.)

Second, there is a picture by Walter Rane of the empty tomb. There is no Savior there--only the laundry that He left. I love this picture in that space because I am reminded that even laundry is sacred when its purpose is to nurture a ransomed life.

Combined, these two reminders give me glowing perspective, imbued with sparkling clean power--just what I need when I'm rinsing out the filth from the clothing of the people I love.

Then enters reality.

I hadn't seen these two items--the sign and the picture--for about four months because the piles of washed, folded laundry were always covering them. The articles in the piles changed, but their height rarely did. In all those months, I was missing the perspective that could have given me the joy I needed in my daily laundry battles.

So I've come up with a solution. Tonight, when the kids go to bed, I'll pull out a ladder and nail those puppies to the ceiling. Surely the laundry won't reach there.

Or, I'll throw in a live grenade, shut the door, and go in tomorrow morning with the Shop Vac and clean up the ashes.

Either way, I've found joy in the mundane. And that's what perspective is all about.