As I bend down to scoop yet another load out of the hamper, a fleeting yet desperate thought crosses my mind. It’s unending, so very unending.
I sort and gather. Wash and dry. Fold and put it all away. Yet there is never really time to celebrate because there is always more. More soiled clothes, damp towels, dirty everything. Without end.
I much prefer to conquer things, to sit back and smile at my achievements, to rest and bask in the glory of doneness.
But there are six of us in this house. Laundry reproduces without ceasing. Unless we reform to nudists (don’t think I haven’t momentarily considered it on the longest days), the laundry will never really be done.
As I stuffed another load into the wash the words began to ring in my mind a little bit. Unending. It feels familiar and yet uncommon as so few things are truly without end. Everything seems to be in limited supply – our time, our energy, our money, our moments with the people we hold dear. Our growing children are slowly letting go, our aging parents are gradually saying goodbye. All of it, in limited supply.
It is the hard things that feel truly unending.
The struggle to make ends meet feels constant. The effort to make marriage work is continual. Our battle with guilt or with brokenness, loneliness or pain from our past feels everlasting. And, of course, there is laundry.
Why is it the hard things that seem unending?
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