One of my most vivid memories as a young mother was the amount of laundry I had to do. I did the wash every day. Since I had five children by the age of 29, I had a fairly large load every morning. Between the sheets, towels and their father & my personal things, it was quite an undertaking. I loved it.
The best part of the laundry process was folding the clothes that came from the dryer. I never got into hanging it outside on a line for that “fresh smell.” I figured it was fresh from being just washed, and the dryer sheets always gave the additional boost of softness I was looking for. The heat clinging to the garments after just piling them into the laundry basket was an exercise in meditation. Even now, cleaning out the lint trap and releasing the aroma of a dryer sheet brings me right back to those days, seemingly ages ago.
I would start with the largest items, mainly sheets and towels, pillowcases and baby blankets, before I moved on to the clothing. Table clothes from holiday dinners, cloth napkins and kitchen towels were cherished as I folded them in my “special way” to be able to fit into the buffet where they were stored until the next celebration. I was a sucker for any kind of party, calling up friends and neighbors at the last minute to celebrate “hey, it’s a Wednesday and the snow has melted” party. Those were good times.
The babies and older kids clothes were folded and put into their own separate piles, the graduation of sizes apparent in the piles. The kids would either be watching television or playing outside, but when the task was complete they would marvel at “their” piles stacked on the living room couch.
I began teaching the teens in this house about the finer arts of separating whites from colors, washing in cold vs. hot, and the joys of folding their own things. They did not share my passion.
As luck would have it, the washer in my little house on the lake blew a gasket one winter morning, causing me to take a trip down to the Laundromat. As I filled a much smaller basket with clothes, I was reminded of my days as a single mother. My oldest would help me load up the car, complete with fabric sheets and detergent, and we have our laundry day. It was usually on a Saturday, and since it was just he and I, we could stretch it to every other Saturday.
When my husband and I were first dating, he asked me if this was really true - I told him it was - he laughed and said he knew I had to be the one for him - his favorite Aunt LOVED doing laundry and he always wanted to find a woman like her - who'd a thought love of laundry would be a trustworthy marriage indicator.
Years ago, I met a young soldier at a Rochester Laundromat in the neighborhood. He had been called up, told to report in 24 hours.
“I realized I didn’t have any socks!” he laughed nervously as I watched him scoop the clothes from the dryer full of just that, socks. His folks lived in Cleveland and had no siblings.
When a young Deacon overheard our conversation, he asked someone to turn off the constant background of the t.v. blaring news of the war directly over our heads. Motioning to the twenty people folding socks and underwear and baby blankets, he asked to all join hands as we prayed for our young brother in arms. Everyone participated; no one felt awkward.
I came in to do my laundry, and got a prayer service. May we be always open to the possibility of sharing a prayer even in the most inconsequential of places. Let us thank God and our service men and women for freedom so we can pray anytime, anywhere.
Even in a Laundromat.
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