Every night, after dinner, I face the dishes. Now cooking, I actually like, but doing the dishes is probably my least favorite chore. I have searched my sub-conscious for a forgotten childhood dish soap tragedy that may have led to this aversion, but short of being hypnotized, I am unable to pinpoint the source of my extreme feelings about dirty plates and silverware.
Perhaps it is the everyday nature of it all. Cooking is every day, too, but it requires some creativity. The dishes just sort of sit in the sink and torment me – daring me to let them sit and pile up and get even worse – and they call to me, “Here we are, exactly like yesterday, the same old monotonous routine.”
Lately, though, I have taken a new approach. I stand at the sink and realize that doing these dishes is partial proof of who I really am and they reveal more than my book or my job or my talents. My ability or inability to be faithful in the everyday of life is so telling. When no one is looking and no one realizes, can I accomplish the mundane?
It’s funny, but I suspect we all go through these moments, deciding to stick with something even when it no longer offers any excitement or rewards or affirmation. Or at least we all should. Sometimes it’s out of love for others, and at other times it’s just to be faithful in those spaces that only God and the dishcloth see.
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