She hated her pile of laundry. She described the colorful cloth pile so eloquently on her social media post about being behind on household chores. The laundry took the brunt of her verbal beating. She hated transferring the soggy mess from the washer to the dryer, she loathed yanking the staticky pieces from the hot tomb, and she couldn’t bear the thought of folding each piece into tight little squares only for her family to procrastinate on tucking them into freshly painted wooden drawers.
Oh, the thought. As my tear-filled eyes wiggled across the lines of her witty post, I felt my face turn hot with envy. The tears finally fell and tiptoed down my fiery face. Why was I so offended by her basket of clothes? What did it ever do to me?
I longed for the simple feeling she had toward her household task. I was jealous that her laundry even mattered. I closed my eyes, bit my lip until I tasted blood and tried to bribe my mind into caring about such a mundane assignment. My willpower had failed, and there I was, wondering what it would be like to have such a pleasant life that the stack of crumpled clothes was my biggest problem of the day.
Maybe it’s easier to hate her laundry than to hate myself.
Have you ever been jealous of someone else’s burden? When tragedy strikes and swipes the rug from under your feet, you’re left crawling on the cold floor, grasping for objects to pull yourself up and relearn how to stand. Like a wobbly toddler, you maneuver around the once-familiar room, working your way upright. At first, hands are there, wiggling fingers insisting on helping you. Friends and family visit, desiring to scoop you off the floor and bring you back to your two feet. Help is in every direction you look. And then finally, when you feel the soles of your feet stick to the ground and your knees cease to quiver, you have a sense of balance again.
Now that you’re standing, everyone applauds. You did it. You made it. You’re healed. That loss of a loved one, that divorce, that betrayal– you made it through now that you’re standing. Those persistent hands are snatched back like a child claiming a toy. The daily check-ins fade and the looks of concern wither into normal faces conducting normal days.
Standing alone after tragedy might feel harder than being left on the floor. You appear well. To the spectator, you’re a whole person capable of tackling that pesky pile of laundry. But little do they know that your burden is still heavier than any full hamper. Your grief doesn’t care about clothes or a list with scribbled errands begging for check marks. Now that you’re standing, your journey begins.
Even when people stop noticing. God doesn’t. He’s there, hearing the whispers of your heart as it hides inside your unintentional facade of a stable being. He catches the tears that trickle onto your pillow and the groans that only your creator can decipher. When it feels like life has resumed and the clock has been restarted after your sudden life time-out, you can trust that He is there to hold your hand as you learn to walk again.
And one day, even though it may seem impossible, you’ll find yourself running; maybe even skipping through life. A smile might spread smoothly across your face; effortlessly, catching you off guard. While once, clenching every muscle to keep your tears caged was your most tasking chore of the day, now you find that your laundry pile is the only thing nagging your attention.
When you reach this day, no matter how far off it seems, you’ll have a fresh fondness of your smile and an affinity for an empty mind, but most importantly, an unexplainable bond to the only One who saw your pain when the rest of the world had moved on.
You never know, you may cross paths with someone who is just learning to stand after tragedy, and while she’s eying your mundane laundry chores with disdain, you’ll reassure her that there will come a day when her pain will make room for the simple once again.
