Folding Clothes — Writing My World

It is her hands that I remember when I fold clothes. The skin mottled with age spots and her fingers curved with arthritis, yet gently smoothing our wrinkled napkins and towels into freshly pressed submission. My mother-in-law, Barbara McGuire Hause, was always an enthusiastic helper. I suppose it was instilled at an early age. One of six children, Barbara was used to pitching in with household chores and helping her mother who worked as a school teacher.

When Barbara came to stay with us after our children were born and once when I was recovering from surgery, she relished taking on the roles of laundress, housekeeper, and cook. I remember her whistling happily down the hall of our apartment as she hauled a huge load of laundry. I don’t think I ever saw her happier or more carefree than when she was helping us out.

As Barbara aged and dementia took its toll, household tasks often flummoxed her. Yet, in her last few years, folding a basket full of warm clothes still brought her delight. Sometimes on those Sunday visits, I didn’t have any laundry for her to fold. So, I would take a bunch of clean towels, washcloths, and t-shirts; toss them in the dryer for a bit; and then ask if she wouldn’t mind folding them for me. She’d smile, eagerly pat her lap, and say, “Of course, I’d love to, Dear!” Then she would sit in the living room watching golf and meticulously fold each item.

A few days after the horrific murders at Covenant School, I found myself in prayerful meditation as I folded and creased our laundry. I was not expecting joy or even satisfaction, but maybe solace in my quiet repetitive motions. This tragedy struck close to home literally and figuratively. I know the school’s pastor and a dear friend’s daughter is a student at Covenant. On that horrific day, I was literally brought to my knees in prayer until at last I learned they were safe. Tragically seven Nashville families did not experience the same joy and relief I felt at the end of that day.

I wonder now what brought the solace I so desperately needed that afternoon. I suppose, like Barbara, folding clothes is a way of setting something right in my world. There is so much out of my purview these days that even a basket of rumpled laundry gives me some semblance of control. Setting something in order at a time when I feel that so much in our world is out of my control.

Yet, solace did not appease nor did it dampen my anger that afternoon. In fact, I am still so very angry. Angry at our legislators for not listening to our cries; angry at them for ousting two Representatives who simply wanted to be heard; and angry at their their inaction. Inaction that will only mean these tragedies will happen again and again and again.

Maybe Barbara felt the same feelings on those Sunday afternoons? I don’t think she was angry but was often frustrated and confused by her diminished capabilities. Yet, on those sleepy Sundays she found rest, purpose, and joy in spite of her disease. Maybe I, too, can find joy in the ordinary, but also purpose by continuing to pray and raise my voice in hopes that commonsense will reign in the halls of our legislatures again and if not, then in the ballot box.