Dishes, you don’t own me

I give a fierce glare at the dishes.  I leave the kitchen.  Maybe if I leave they will go away.  I come back in the kitchen.  It is still haunting me.  Out of habit I reach for the dishwasher handle, it is not there.  All the years of throwing dishes into a machine seems like a luxury.

The constant battle of dishes and laundry tries to overcome me every day.  I will conquer.  In this past I have foolishly thought that it will all work itself out.  It’s an illusion that I don’t have to face.  It is kind of like my aunt telling me as a child that if I thought a cheeseburger wouldn’t make me fat, it couldn’t.  It doesn’t matter how you try to rationalize it or make chores disappear in your mind- it is unrelenting and constant.

There is beauty in a detailed life.  There is surrender and acceptance.  Like washing the dishes while the trees blow in the wind.  Seeing a squirrel hold on for dear life.  Hearing God’s gentle voice telling me that He is pleased.  Dancing in His favor as I put away toys.

One sink full of dishes down, another two to go.  At least Colorado is dry.


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