Waiting

This laundry basket is sitting in my bedroom, next to my dresser, clean and folded, basking in the sunlight.

It has been there for days.

Laundry is a great example of repetition. Wash. Dry. Fold. Wear. Repeat. It is never truly finished, and this basket sits in the in between, not dirty, not put away. Just waiting.

It is easy to feel resentment at how much of my time I spend tending to it. The monotony, the sameness. The fact that there is no real end in sight.

But then I look at what is actually in the basket.

Cloth diapers have made their way back in, along with tiny newborn onesies waiting for a body that is still growing into them. Oliver’s favorite shirt with the dogs on it. My husband’s worn jeans, a reflection of his hard work. My pair of pants that fit again.

Each piece waits to be moved and worn.

One day the newborn clothes will disappear from the basket without much notice. The toddler shirts will be replaced with something bigger. The cycle continues, but the sizes change, just as the seasons do.

The basket sits in a patch of sunlight, ordinary and unremarkable. I love how good light does not discriminate, falling on anything in its path.

When Oliver looks at a basket of laundry, he does not see a task. He sees something to drag, to dump, to fall into, and bury himself under. What I see as work, he sees as possibility.

Waiting is like that too. It is not wasted time, not just something to get through. It is the space between the next wearing, the next growth spurt, the next load, just as this season of life is.

The basket will not sit there forever. It will be carried away, drawers will open and close, and tomorrow it will begin again. I am learning to handle even this small, repetitive waiting with a little more care.