About a year ago, our washing machine flooded the laundry room. I was rushing out the door to get the kids to swim lessons and walked straight into a pool of soapy water. Cue me frantically vacuuming up the mess and trying to keep it from spilling into the kitchen. We made it to swim class—barely—and I arrived already soaked.
The washer was out of commission for nearly a month. That same month, my husband and both kids came down with a nasty case of pinkeye. If you’ve ever tried to keep up with washing clothes, sheets, and towels without a washer—while six months pregnant and trying not to catch pinkeye yourself—you’ll understand just how hard that month was.
Later, I talked to my Grandma, who lives three hours away in a small mountain town. I told her about our laundry disaster, and she told me how she used to wash diapers in the creek near their home. That conversation, combined with my time spent hauling baskets to the laundromat, made me realize how fortunate I am to even have a washing machine.
Fast forward to just last weekend. My husband and I sat with Grandma in her living room after my Grandpa’s celebration of life. The house was quiet. My Grandma—so strong through his long illness and passing—finally let some of it catch up with her. They were married when she was just 16. Sixty-four years of marriage. A kind of love story we don’t see much anymore—one rooted in faith, commitment, and deep, enduring love.
She told us earlier that day, she had done a load of laundry. It had just three items in it: the last three pairs of my Grandpa’s underwear. The final pieces of clothing she would ever wash for him. Sixty-four years of folding his shirts and socks… and now, no more.
Like many of you, I’m always behind on laundry. We have three kids under six. There’s always a load that needs to be washed, folded, or re-fluffed in the dryer for the third time. It can be overwhelming. Exhausting. It can drive me absolutely crazy.
Underwear. Socks. Dinosaur sheets. Swimsuits. Coats. Superhero capes. Princess dresses. Baby onesies. My husband’s workout gear. His work shirts.
And let’s not forget the never-ending sink full of sippy cups, the car seats that need buckling, the scattered tennis shoes, the constant vacuuming.
But one day, I’ll wash the last pair of princess panties.
One day, I’ll fold the last set of dinosaur sheets.
One day, there won’t be any more baby onesies.
One day, I’ll wash my husband’s last collared shirt.
In those chaotic, overwhelming moments of laundry and dishes and cleaning and life, I’ll think of my Grandma. Of her standing by the washer with those last three pairs of underwear. Of the silence that followed.
And I’ll be thankful.
Thankful that I have a washing machine—and not a creek.
Thankful for the mess, the piles, the clutter, the chaos.
Thankful for the people who make the dirty laundry that fills our baskets.
Because this season of life is fleeting. And the laundry, as endless as it may seem, is proof that love still lives in this house.
