My Glorious Dish Towel
(from 2007 archive)
I
confess. I guess I am just sentimental about dish towels. This one came into my
life 25 years ago, fluffy and fresh, bright with glorious rainbows, back when I
was still a fluffy, fresh, and bright young college student. It arrived in a
care package from my mother, nestled in with edibles and kitchen
practicalities, and maybe an inspiring new book to feed my idealistic soul. My
mom understood about such things (and still does). She always said that new
dish towels could perk up even the dreariest kitchen, and that rundown
apartment kitchen sure needed it! We had no dishwasher except the human kind,
so that towel did daily duty at my sink. And each time I would hang it up
proudly so everyone could see its glorious rainbows.
And here we are now, all these years later. I wearily plop a toddler on her little oak bed in my bedroom. My tenth toddler. In my bedroom still. Someday she will move out to another room, when my first no-longer-toddler-now-bright-fresh-idealistic-young-adult-daughter moves out of the house, but we are in no hurry for that, no hurry at all. Still, I am a tired mommy, a busy mommy. And even after this particularly long and tiring day, it is not time for me to go to my bed yet, except to sit on it and fold another mound of laundry, the foothills of Mt. Neverest, as I call my unending five-loads-a-day pile. And then a wave of melancholy washes over me.
And here we are now, all these years later. I wearily plop a toddler on her little oak bed in my bedroom. My tenth toddler. In my bedroom still. Someday she will move out to another room, when my first no-longer-toddler-now-bright-fresh-idealistic-young-adult-daughter moves out of the house, but we are in no hurry for that, no hurry at all. Still, I am a tired mommy, a busy mommy. And even after this particularly long and tiring day, it is not time for me to go to my bed yet, except to sit on it and fold another mound of laundry, the foothills of Mt. Neverest, as I call my unending five-loads-a-day pile. And then a wave of melancholy washes over me.
Even
in the dim light of the go-to-sleep-sweetie-I’m-still-right-here bedroom, I can
see this dish towel in my hand, this faded and threadbare dish towel, with its
once bright rainbows barely recognizable. It is so thin I can see through it.
How has it survived this long? In these 25 years it has done its daily duties
for sure:
- drying dishes (imagine that!)
- soaking up the drips from the leaky air conditioner in that old apartment
- laying under fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter in our newlywed apartment or our first little townhouse
- wiping away traces of morning sickness
- playing peek-a-boo with a baby
- soothing a fevered brow of a sick child, and another sick child, and another…
- cushioning china in a cross-country move to a bigger home for a growing family
- mopping up spilled apple juice, milk, and assorted unmentionable liquids from the floor
- covering a pan of rising bread dough made by an eager baker-daughter for a family Thanksgiving feast
- cleaning a soft young face covered with spaghetti sauce or peanut butter or blood or runny nose
- wrapping an ice pack to keep it from being so cold on a bruised forehead
- maybe even cleaning a hamster cage, though I hope not…
- and much more, much much more, over and over and over again
And
between each time, to sanitize it for its next task, it is stuffed in a bucket
with all of the other wet smelly kitchen linens, churned with bleach and
detergent in the washer, and then shoved unceremoniously into the dryer with
the heat and dizzying spin, sacrificing its lovely fluffy fiber to the lint
trap. Then, after being crumpled into a clean basket, it is folded and crammed
into the linen closet or the drawer by the kitchen sink, or, bypassing all of
these, snatched right from the dryer and put immediately to desperate use
again. It is needed, needed all the time. Like me.
And
so the wave of melancholy, as I sense its metaphor of my own life. I feel like
this dish towel. Old. Used up. Threadbare, with frayed fringes where neat hems
used to be. Always in a spin. Like the faded rainbow, where have my once
sparkling young dreams gone? I weep and wipe the tears with the towel. I hold
it to my face and breathe in deeply. It is soft, so soft as it comforts me, as
it has comforted others. It deserves dignity. I do not want it to be carelessly
discarded by someone who does not understand dish towels and nostalgia, so I
tuck it safely into an unseen crevice on my bookcase where no one can find it.
I clear the rest of the folded laundry off of my bed and sleep. Oh, how I need
sleep.
I
wake in the wee hours of the morning, as I always do, like it or not. My mind
churns, as it often does, thinking, pondering. This is not a bad thing in
itself, because I love to think and ponder and dream awake, but right now I
would rather sleep. And then it dawns on me, like a glittering rainbow as a
shaft of sunshine suddenly illuminates a gray and drizzly sky. This is the
glory of the dish towel, the glory of my life. What? What is the glory?
Service. Being used up from constant need. Emptying myself in order to fulfill
my purpose. Love working itself out in humble and practical ways. This is why
I’m here: in God’s strength, serving my husband and children in our busy
life-filled home, where celebrations mingle with sorrows, and the momentous
punctuates the mundane. This is the life I chose, preparing young hearts and
minds to fulfill their own life destinies. It is a good life.
The
recent words of another bright, fresh young woman flood in to comfort me: “Mrs.
Knowles,” she said, tapping me on the shoulder on a Sunday morning at church.
“Mrs. Knowles, I believe the Lord wants me to remind you that your motherhood
is a holy service to him. It is no waste. When you bow down to wipe up a spill
from the floor, you are bowing in worship and service to him.” Remembering
these refreshing words, I rise from my bed and tiptoe over to the bookcase,
quietly, so as not to wake the tenth toddler, who nonetheless starts to rustle
in her bed, sucking her thumb furiously until her
I’m-about-to-wake-up-breathing evens out into restful sleep again. I grope
around in the crevice and my hand feels the softness of the towel, the esteemed
towel. There are tears to wipe again, but this time tears of gratitude. I am
thankful that, unlike my lowly and lifeless dish towel, I can be renewed and I
will receive my reward.
~*~*~
“He
is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.” Jim
Elliott, martyred missionary
“Whoever
finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find
it.” Matthew 10:39
“Jesus,
knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had
come from God and was going back to God, rose from supper. He laid aside his
outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured
water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with
the towel that was wrapped around him. When he had washed their feet and put on
his outer garments and resumed his place, he said to them, “Do you understand
what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for
so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also
ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you
also should do just as I have done to you. Truly, truly, I say to you, a
servant is not greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one
who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.” John
13:3-5, 12-17
~*~*~
I wrote this in 2007, but I thought of this essay tonight as I was folding yet another pile of dish towels. It was a favorite of my readers back then.
That toddler is now in 3rd grade, two of my daughters are married, and I have four grandchildren. Another two have flown the coop, too, though they live nearby and visit often. I give them dish towels. I can't say time flies, but I do wonder where it went. :-)
My own sweet mother, who gave me my rainbow dish towel, went to be with Jesus last year. I brought many of her dish towels home with me. I think I need one to wipe my tears right now.
God bless you, sweet Mama. Keep at it.
Virginia Knowles
Love this! Thank you for taking the time to write it out, it's very encouraging :)
ReplyDeleteThank you for such a beautiful thought provoking post. Blessings to you in your high calling of wife and mother.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful! Serving others, being soft but strong, is a very worthwhile thing to do. You might appreciate this post: My grandmother got a few things done.
ReplyDelete