[featured on Perissos 3/23/16]
Yesterday I decided to Spring-clean our bedroom, which included stripping the entire bed and washing the king sized duvet cover. When I pulled it out of the dryer it was a wrinkled mess.
I declared, “I’m going to iron the duvet cover.” My husband looked up concerned and said, “You’re going to iron? Are you sure?”
It’s been a long time since I ironed. Years. I don’t think my kids have ever seen me do it. Ain’t nobody got time for that. We send my husband’s shirts to the cleaners and buy wrinkle-free clothes for everyone else.
I pulled down the squeaking legs of my ancient ironing board and blew dust off the bottle of starch. I turned the iron on. I looked for the seams hidden in the yards of fabric. The geometric pattern was all jumbled under the long wrinkles.
Slowly I laid a section over the board and ran my hand over the cool fabric. I felt the heat from the iron. I shook and sprayed the starch.
I quickly fell into the quiet rhythm and repetition of ironing. Pull the fabric, straighten the seam, spray the starch, push the iron back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then pull, straighten, spray, and push again. And again.
Crumpled fabric covered my feet on one side of the ironing board. Smooth fabric with straight lines folded over on the other side.
In the quiet I heard myself say, “Iron me, God.”
Continue reading here…
- Scabs & Scars – sometimes redemption comes through pain
- Fallow Fields – sometimes sanctification comes through emptiness
©Aimee Fritz & Family Compassion Focus, 2016