The Dishes

I never want to do the dishes... but sometimes I need to. When life is frenetic, or a bit too glamorous even, I do the dishes. Dishes remind me that process brings change. That work at its base is the substance of all things. We break and fix, mold and shape, repair and destroy— all work of one sort or another. The dishes are a labor of love, labor to bring kings off thrones, dads out of executive chairs, moms from the phone, and kids from their games.

We soak the crusted oatmeal pot and suds up the sponge for whatever's next. The progress of dishes brings joy to my heart, how a dirty countertop overrun with a family's thoughts of lunch and dinner can be transformed into another blank canvas, washable art of collaboration.

Joy comes in soap and water because the world is in the sink. For those moments, the world is in the sink of scrap, soap, and water, and I get to dole out the new mercies of morning, a god with a sponge.

The kitchen sink holds everything when my hands cannot. I control what goes in, but it holds everything without me. I'm really its employee, but I don't mind so much. The work is easy, and the customers are satisfied.

And so, too, am I.

I am satisfied to do the work of cleaning, although I've never wanted it. But so goes life; cleaning and working, not from desire but necessity. I sleep when the dishes are done. I sleep when the work is done and it is clean. I am clean. I squeeze out new mercy, and I drink it in from on high.

Tomorrow I will do the dishes, and the next day, just to remember the mercies, the process... and at least one empty throne down here.