Nightgowns were lifted from the dryer smelling clean and fresh; the softness of the material radiated comfort. I have taken on the extra chore of doing my mother's laundry for the past couple of weeks. It was time. No where will one get the concentrated effort of laundry done correctly like it is done at home.
It has been just a little over a year since Daddy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He went to the hospital one Sunday morning in late October and was never able to return to his home again. This past year has branded itself into every pathway of my life. From these experiences my soul has developed at times what seems like deep valleys and crests; shadows and peaks; but there are also spectacular views which can only be seen through the lens when you are behind the camera.
Lately, I have experienced a sense of relief, an uplifting in my spirit. Some of the days of last year I might relish the thought of living over, then there are other days I would prefer to stay as far outside my line of consciousness as possible. There are things that I have not talked about in this space, and many things only briefly recorded in my personal journal. I have lived by His grace, through His grace and because of His grace.
But as my mother's nightgowns were tenderly folded I was faced again with the overwhelming truth of role reversals. The last time such mindful care was spent over nightclothes was with the tiny gowns and sleepers of my children when they were very young. Even the recall of Ivory Snow and Dreft was stirred this morning in the simple act of laundering my mother's clothes.