There are some household chores I do not like. Hate may even be an appropriate way to describe my feelings for them at times. One of those chores is the dishes. I have read lovely essays, written by people who live pretend lives, lauding the wonders of doing the dishes. I have heard people say doing the dishes is therapeutic, I have heard people say it is fun to make dirty things clean again. Something is wrong with people like that. Most days I can grit my teeth and bear it while I swirl soapy water on the dishes used for the most recent meal. Then there are those days when I want to slam each dish on the counter to hear it crash and yell, "FREEDOM!" Last night was one of those nights.
We ate a semi-hurried dinner before leaving for church, and there was a pile of unwashed dishes to be done when we got home. A mountain of dishes is not a welcoming sight, so I griped while I was up to my elbows in soap suds and thought about what a terrible place the world is because people have to come home to dirty dishes. I guess that is pretty silly. There are much worse things I could be doing like scrubbing toilets or cleaning the fridge. I will be finished washing the dishes at some point, and then someone will get them dirty again, and I will get to wash them again.
My grandmother used to tell me to pray while I did my chores. My least favorite was cleaning out the refrigerator because my mom would let it go so long. So I learned from that...and I keep mine pretty decent. Still, most lessons are learned by life's experiences. My mom had other things to do that were more pressing than the fridge. I am thankful for that lesson.
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