My wife’s been in Phoenix since Thanksgiving while I man the homestead outside of Austin. Doing the laundry became a mandatory part of my week. 

I understand the dirty clothes were all my doing. No harm, though, in letting her know last Saturday entailed hours of washing and drying and folding. Right?

Before you pre-judge me, please know I know how to do laundry. I’m the oldest of four boys. I was an early-adopter household skills Renaissance man. Cooking. Cleaning. Ironing. Adept in all.

It’s just that we’ve had a separation of duties for most of our married life. I cook. She cleans. Which includes laundry.

Not sure why I put off doing laundry. I don’t think it’s the smells. There’s just something unappealing about the task.

Similar to when I find myself needing to clean out the dirty clothes hamper in my own life. There’s just something unattractive about admitting I’m the one responsible for the stench that makes you not want to breathe deeply.

Those underarm stains on the t-shirt? I caused them. That rip that tore up the trust? All mine. The disappointment that keeps recurring because my lack of follow through? Guilty.

Who enjoys confessing that? 

36 years of marriage laundry has taught me some laundry magic:

-Work hard to minimize the dirt you bring into the house.

-Admit the dirt you cause.

-It takes two to clean up the mess. Actually it takes three.

Marriage isn’t about doing your own laundry. It’s about doing the other’s laundry. Jesus makes that possible.

Forgiveness flowing from Jesus makes doing laundry easier. Not saying it’s fun. Or exciting. But when the hamper is empty. When the clothes return to their original shine and smell. That’s divine.

Don’t let your laundry pile up. Better to let Jesus tackle it as you go.

Which reminds me: she’s flying home today. I still have sheets to fold.