In hindsight, the words sound a bit brusque. Rude, even.
I meant well. The red-headed lady who raised me would have been surprised to know I said them. I’m a little surprised myself.
The other red-headed lady was standing at the sink. I was waiting, nearly patiently, for her but she kept doing what she had started. Finally, I had had enough.
“Will you move out of the way, so I can get in there?”
She looked over at me sheepishly and, drying her hands, moved away from the sink. I took her place and began to wash the supper dishes.
I know. I said she’d be surprised—the one who raised me, I mean—and I wasn’t kidding. She would have been shocked. The shock wouldn’t have come from the rude words. No, she was used to hearing those from her youngest boy, a brat if ever there was one.
She would have been astounded to learn I was volunteering to wash dishes. It never ever happened in her experience with me. I’m sorry that’s true.
The task of doing dishes is not a pleasant one for me, probably because of my early experiences with the job. In my formative years, it was the children in the house who did that kind of work. Neither of the two adults living with us had any need to soak their hands in dish soap.
My Dad answered the question with some regularity. Knowing there were seven in our family, most folks assumed we’d have a dishwasher. His words were, without fail, “What do I need a dishwasher for? I’ve got five of them.”
There was always a smile on his face when he said the words, but he wasn’t joking. From oldest to youngest, the five siblings took their respective weekday, Monday through Friday. The calendar hanging on the inside of the cupboard door showed the schedule for the weekend rotation. Yep. Still kids.
I’ve told you about the dishes hidden in the oven, right? My brainchild, that one was. Not the brightest idea I’ve ever had. Let’s just say that Melmac doesn’t heat up to 425 degrees all that well and leave it at that.
You will understand when I say that, even from my advanced age, I don’t relish the task of washing dishes. It’s not that it’s a difficult process. There’s no advanced degree required to accomplish the deed. Run hot water. Add soap. Wipe dishes with a rag. Rinse.
I can do all that. The problem is. . .
Well. You know what the problem is, don’t you?
Sure. I can do all that—run hot water, adding soap. I’m good at wiping them clean and usually have no problem getting the soap scum off. My problem is a little thing called recurrence.
The dishes are washed, but a few hours later, the process must be repeated. And again. And again.
I start with good intentions. I do.
Sure, Honey. Put me down for that job. After lunch every day. Until I die. No problem. No, really. I’ll get it.
I’m a good starter. The best. At starting. I’m even good at finishing. Maybe not the best, but pretty capable.
It’s the in-between parts that get me.
I promised to do what? How long? Everyday? That can’t be right.
The other day, I was reading about a physical fitness program (only reading, you understand), and the personal trainer who wrote the article suggested it would take three months to make the daily routine a habit. Three months! Three months of repetitious reps before the routine became routine.
I thought I’d check his facts (no—of course, not by actually doing it!) and read (again) about a scientific study which proved it took at least two months, but up to two-hundred-fifty days to do that. Over eight months! Of doing the same thing every day.
And, it wasn’t just doing the same thing every day; it was making yourself do it whether you wanted to or not. I’m pretty sure I know which category I would fall in.
I’m thinking about this, though. I’ve decided that almost everything we do in this life is a recurring task.
The thing that’s different is the frequency of the repetition. W
ashing dishes, brushing teeth, showering, dressing, shaving—these have to be done daily or even more often.
Except the shaving. I have decided since I don’t face the public on a daily basis anymore, I can skip that for a day or two here and there. It’s been known to stretch out a bit more than that, too.
I won’t go through a long list of all the tasks we do on a recurring basis, but even maintenance of our vehicles and homes fits in, however distant from each other the cycles are. Painting the eaves of the house will come around again. Having the timing belt on my pickup replaced will have to be done again. Too soon, even though it’s likely to be another ten years.
Not many essential tasks can be done only once and then never again.
Perhaps, none at all.
A wise friend once suggested as I made excuses for not spending more time with him, that we do the things which are important to us.
I had to chew on that for a while. We make it a habit to eat a meal with him and his wife at least twice a month now.
It’s important to us.
Somehow, I think I’ve said enough for now. Almost.
There’s just this:
We started. At some time, we started on this journey.
We’ll finish. It’s a guarantee. Ironclad. (Hebrews 9:27)
Now, we’re doing the in-between part.
Perhaps, a few more reps?
Practice means to perform over and over again, in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.
(from An Athlete of God ~ Martha Graham ~ American choreographer/teacher)
Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord.
Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.
(Psalm 5:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.
