“Laundry”; 5 Minute Friday

I am joining that group again this Friday
Writing on a word given (this week “laundry”)
We have 5 minutes to write
No editing allowed.
It is a bit hard to publish something I have not read thru again and edited.
But here goes;)
On laundry and such;)

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It was on a rooftop in Delhi that I learned about laundry
I learned that it did not have to be a chore
I learned that it was art
I learned that it was a from of love
I learned that you become part of a story by such menial, mundane tasks as laundry

We washed laundry by hand
There was a machine that did about 5 minutes of the work
Then we took out the clothes and soaked them in a series of 3 buckets
Then you’d twist and turn the clothes
Until they were wrung dry enough and your hands and forearms were twitching for hours to come
We did this again and again
For 35 little ones
They would join in along with us
Humming and singing songs from home and telling stories of working alongside their moms in farmlands far away

Then we would lay out all the clothes in the dry, cruel Delhi sunlight
And they would be dry within a few hours

I learned it was art, working alongside these broken ones
To wash the few garments they had
Because I saw vibrant colors parading the rooftop against the lime green wall
The vibrant colors of India that pulse with meaning and life
I saw patched up blankets made from old saris
I saw sequins on birthday dresses that little girls pirouetted in once a year
The rooftop was radiant with a mess of beauty

I learned that it was love
As we washed alongside each other and I heard their ache for home
Because poverty had stolen their childhood
And now they had to settle with us to wash alongside
Instead of their moms and dads whom generational sin had made a dissolving memory

I learned that it was a story
As I saw torn undergarments that could not be parted with because it was their one memory of their mom who last visited them 4 years prior
As I saw tshirts sent from sponsors abroad; a testimony of love in the midst of heartache
As we broke into laughter over the silliest of jokes
Or just from exhaustion of washing and standing in that Delhi summer heat

As I washed alongside children, orphaned by poverty and sickness and evil
We made artwork in the form of laundry on rooftops

But as time has passed,
I have realized that laundry does not always feel like art
It does not always feel like you are making a quilted masterpiece beneath a setting sun on a lime green rooftop in rural India
Most of the time, in fact, it smells and it sours
It is repetitive and mundane and annoying
It piles up and never seems to shrink in foreboding size
It threatens to steal my joy when I walk out of my room each morning and see that basket overflowing
It is full of poo from burst ostomy bags
It has smeared bananas reminding me of that meal that was not eaten by a fussy, tired boy

But, the thing is
There can be beauty even in those things
Even when colors and sequins are not being reflected in the sun
And when little orphan hands are not joining in sharing their stories

I learned that “creativity is piercing the mundane to find the marvelous”- bill moyers

It can be glorious
I have to keep piercing the mundane to see the marvelous
I have to see the story being woven under my own rooftop even when it does not feel romantic or adventurous
I have to scrub with joy
I have to rinse with a spirit of intercession
I have to ask for His eyes to see the artwork in white walls and overflowing baskets of laundry