Finding Joy In Wash, Rinse, Repeat

The repetition of the beautiful can feel more like repetition of the ordinary.

The let dog in let dog out days of in and out of the washer and dryer she adds a load, changes it out, and tries to mix it up.

She sees the ordinary but strains for the extraordinary of the cycles of life. The make the bed and wash a load and empty, re- load the machines that wash the things that are dirty hums its dull hum.

And the check the mail and fluff the pillows and call a friend and go to the store and wipe the counters again drills go on and on and on.

But what if she sees a nuance of change and a strain of the beautiful in the repetition of the everyday.

And what if she began to lace the duties of life and living with prayer and praise and songs.

Taking the sheets of music to the bed as she folds the sheets. And raises the window to hear the birds as they serenade the cycles of living. The daily fringed with songs of grace.

And what if the breathing of the home she holds dear begins to sound like the breathing of the family that will walk in soon in need of nurture, both of the soul and of the body.

So the wiping of the counters begins to look like a prelude to an act of love, of service.

And the mundane looks like a view through a kaleidoscope when she shifts the view, turns it slant to see, really see what’s hidden behind the veil of the daily.

And “viewing life through a lense of grace” breaks out anew from its cocoon of hiding and is reborn.

She sees the grace of life. She sees the joy in wash, rinse, repeat.

She reframes her ordinary with extravagant love and wipes the counter with a cloth of dripping wet grace, in the living, grace in the everyday.

And He does make all things new. In the moments of the everyday everyday.


So she turns it on its head until the blood rushes in and shakes and spins it round and round. And when the day gets turned right side up it’s flush with living, flush with the flow of blood all through the living breathing it.

The life has rushed back in and the life flows strong and bold through the day.

The turning, flipping bring shades of new, shades of the life-blood show, shining through. And it blushes with crimson, tinges of life-red.

The stale looks fresh, the old looks re-born and the mundane places are fired-up with the electric new.

She views life through a lense of grace.

And all the things on life’s pendulum, swing to the beat of a recalibrated heart.

And life fills her home again. And the beat goes on and on and on.

Dancing to the songs of grace.


Joining Jen and Heather today.



I Know Now, A Little More About Writing And Living

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart — William Wordsworth

Writing is both mask and unveiling — E.B. White

Every day I learn a little more about writing and living and how they intertwine. Does living drive the writing. Doesn’t writing come from the living.

But writing feels like living a second time. It often feels like a second go around, a chance to grab a clearer understanding. To place the lens up again with the glass wiped clean. Out from the fog comes the changed perspective. Ever so slightly, a changed experience evolves. Or the experience changes, is evolved when the breathing is released on the page.

And so I didn’t keep my promise, of sorts to you and to myself, that I was on a bit of a blogging break. Because in some ways I was still writing at the desk in the corner of my mind. Penning phrases and re-living the days of this life.

Processing the flood of strangers at our family Thanksgiving who turned out to be lovely and wonderful. Well I only spoke to one or two of them and they were perfectly lovely. I found myself too busy visiting with family that I see less often than I’d like. Do I feel a twinge of guilt for not mixing and mingling with them. Yes, how did you know.

And sitting in a small circle of family, from two to well, over fifty two, as a little one was cheered on to let her sister pull her tooth. The one in front in that Christmas song. The one that would make her smile all wonderful and toothless. The very tooth hanging by a thread, twisting and turning like a white sail flapping in the wind, nearly untethered.

So White was right. It’s an unveiling.

It’s a re-writing in the remembering. It’s life unveiled as the fingers dance out on the backlit keypads and reframe from memory the fragments of a life, played out again in recessed corners, deep crevices of wrinkling wobbling memory.

There are some seasons where slowing down the recording, the pulsing breathing, rebreathing of events seems to snuff the very life out of the living. To leave it in a dusty corner of the mind feels like an early burying of a life. An early death of sorts. This is that very season for me.

Because if White is right, then leaving the events veiled kills the potential for sharing the very heartbeat of the writer with her readers and her God.

If unveiling is sharing, these small seemingly wondrously mundane events where you may say I know, I have lived that, felt that, I am not so alone after all, then pull back the veil. To shared humanness.

We sat in the sunlit swamp with barely walkers and ones with walkers. And the stories of lives intersected like a pile up on 1-95. But rather than life-taking it is life-giving.

It is the aunt who retires in weeks after years of working and watching her face muse and ponder her plans.

It’s hearing of new jobs and hurt knees, new joints. Of aging and birth piled up like raked leaves, a collection of color and signs of changing seasons.

And it’s watching teenagers heave back in shared laughter at the giddy free falling joy of family who are more like friends and all their favorite foods, served outside by a blue river that most days is swampy muddy brown.

But today. Today it’s blue, the sky is blue, tummies and hearts are full. And the writers can’t stop reading the moments in reverse.

Retrieving yesterday’s moments which today are fresh memory. And while they are fresh, I will write with today’s breath yesterday’s breathing. Yesterdays living. Dip down into the inkwell of yesterdays still-wet stories, and stroke out understanding with an unveiling of the seemingly mundane moments.

And hope that our shared human experience gives legs to the stories and sets them out to run free.

And maybe we will all understand a little more about writing and living.