I stand in front of the dining room window,
ironing in the morning light,
trying my best to do so mindfully:
I observe the colors and patterns of the shirts,
feel their texture,
feel the warmth of the iron,
smell the fresh-laundered fabric,
watch wrinkles melt to smoothness,
and the steam rise through the slatted light
of the blinds.
At the end, I iron Easter dinner's nine napkins,
thinking as I do, of each of us who will gather:
This one for Kevin,
this one for Harriet,
...for Beth,
...for Stevan
...Darryn, Bridget, Sue, Tim, me.
I am here, now.
A few steps away,
the dishwasher sloshes its quiet way
through the wash cycle,
while just beyond, in the laundry room,
the furnace warms us,
the washing machine cleans our sheets,
and the dryer tumbles a load of lights.
All of this is life,
a home alive and loved and full.
And today is Good Friday.
Today is the day
history had its clearest,
most profound,
most unsettling
demonstration of pure, self-sacrificing love.
On that day, at noon in the Middle East,
while all of heaven held its collective breath,
.001% of the world's population
witnessed the upending of creation.
The rest of the world--
the 99.999%--
went about its daily tasks--
doing the laundry,
exchanging goods,
harvesting crops.
Children played or learned their lessons;
wives and husbands talked about finances;
donkeys hauled grain and bricks.
And to all of this,
one person, willingly walking the via dolorosa,
said Yes,
said Yes to my laundry and ironing,
to the feeding cats and the walking of dogs,
to the dressing of children and the plowing of fields,
to all the tasks that fill our lives,
to the hour-by-hour seeking for happiness and stability and wholeness,
to all our journeys toward what is true and holy and most real.
Wherever today takes you,
listen for the eternal, echoing Yes.
It's your Yes;
it's your life.
Text and image © 2018 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.
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