Even the laundry

A few weeks ago, my friend, Cindy, had her fifth baby. Her oldest child is not quite seven, so that means she's had five pregnancies in six years. Whew.

Cindy is just the kind of person, though, that makes something like five children in six years seem easy. She does everything such a thoroughness, thoughtfulness, and apparent ease that I teasingly have told her she should have crossed the plains with the pioneers. In fact, if this were the nineteenth century and we were crossing the plains, I would have been that lady that died giving birth in the covered wagon, and Cindy would be the Mary Fielding Smith character, healing the ox and hauling all her family west with a smile.

Nevertheless, following the birth of her fifth baby, Cindy has gotten sick with a fever that she can't shake. No one knows what's wrong, and so far (thank heaven) it doesn't seem to be any more serious than a simple fever; just enough to keep her out of sorts and upside down....who has time to have a fever when there are the endless demands of little children, let alone the adjustment to a new baby, let alone the recovery from a somewhat harrowing third term of pregnancy?

Just after Lillian was born I wrote this post about my realization that empathy is earned. Sometimes the blessing of walking through the fire is, among other things, that you come out on the other side with a greater awareness of the suffering--however large or small--around you, as well as the simple ways you can alleviate that suffering.

In the two years since that time, I have found pregnancy carved a special place in my heart that now holds a great reservoir of compassion for all things childbirth related. In fact, Trent has pointed out that my eyes tear up just seeing someone who is 8 or 9 months pregnant. So, when I heard of Cindy's plight, I signed up--literally signed up in Relief Society on the sign up sheet for every space available--to help in all ways, any way I could.

And when I called Monday morning to ask Cindy how she was doing, her voice sounded tired and weary. "What do you need?" I questioned.

She sighed and said, "I don't even know."

Yeah, been there. Haven't you?

"Can I take your kids? Can I bring you dinner? Can I wash your dishes?"

She paused. "I don't know...I mean, I haven't even done laundry and my kids have nothing to wear..." her voice trailed off.

"Can I do your laundry, Cindy? I'll come and pick it up right now."

It didn't take much to convince her. I think she was just sick enough to not fight me, and so she relented. In about an hour I was at her house where the laundry waited for me in large white laundry bins. I hauled it all out to the car and brought it home. After Lillian laid down for her afternoon nap, I went downstairs and began the task of sorting the laundry and figuring out how I was going to approach this task.

I'm not going to lie; there was a lot of laundry. About eight loads, in all. And I'm not really into laundry (But that begs the question, who really is into laundry? The only person I've ever known that totally digs doing laundry is my mother in law. She likes to launder. She likes to iron. She likes to fold. And so when she comes to visit, Trent's t-shirts get creased and his socks get mated and the house smells like Bounce fabric sheets. It's amazing, I tell you, amazing). For a moment, I felt a little overwhelmed at just the sight of all those loads of laundry, plus three or four loads of my own, crowding the laundry room. And doing someone's laundry is a little...personal, isn't it? I didn't want Cindy to be embarrassed, nor did I want to make it all feel too invasive. So I tried my best to be respectful.

Respectful about laundry. Hmmm. As I began the process with the issue of respect in my mind, I began thinking. I felt a need to do the best job possible for Cindy, hoping that this somehow would lighten her burden, if only a little.

That led me to thinking about how Jesus Christ told us that the service we do for others can be service for Him; that thought process made me feel all tingly inside. What if, I thought, (with all due respect) someone had asked me to do laundry for the Savior, Himself. Oh, how lovingly I would do it. How perfectly I would want it done. How carefully I would fold each linen. How sacred, holy, and spiritual an experience would that be.

Sacred? Holy? Spiritual? With just laundry? Absolutely. And then, in that moment, truly, eight loads of laundry transcended to communication with the Divine. And it was wonderful.

Now, just one last part of the story. The end of a year of seminary brought (I don't know why) a sense of frustration, and even confusion about my purpose, spiritually speaking, in church related matters right now. Last week I felt lonely and wondered fruitlessly about where to put my focus, energy, and effort. And so I prayed with all my heart on Sunday for greater guidance and for a greater ability to love others.

Monday morning brought Cindy and the laundry. It did not feel like a coincidence. Rather, it felt like an answer to prayer.

My heart felt light and happy as I finished the eighth batch of laundry, put it lovingly in the bins, and sent it back (via Trent) to Cindy this morning.

I found myself wanting to attach a note telling her thank you for the gift of her laundry. I think that is what this post is all about.