Laundry Quandry

Several weeks ago I wrote about the blessing of finding our house, and how much we have enjoyed watching our family grow here.

But I left out this little bit of truth: When I saw the house for the first time, I was disappointed that the laundry was in the basement. I had hoped for main floor laundry. But that was a small thing, and I could deal with it.

And I did deal with it for several years. But then surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from my head left me essentially bedridden. I gradually began to feel better, learned to walk again, and began to do some work around the house.

But I couldn't get the laundry done. I was not strong enough to carry baskets of clothes and towels and sheets up and down the stairs. I made it work for a while by waiting until my kids were home from school and asking them to carry the laundry up and down. But I couldn't keep up.

Wes and I had occasionally talked about adding on to make a laundry room upstairs. But it would be very expensive, and we had never felt we could make it a priority. It seemed to me the time had come to make it a priority.

I talked to Wes about it. He immediately understood my dilemma and was ready to solve it: "Why didn't you say something earlier? I'll be glad to take over the laundry." 

I looked at him smiling down at me, and I thought, "You dear, sweet, ignorant man. Do you have any idea what you are getting into?"

So my husband became the laundry guy. And to his credit, he did a very good job. He didn't do it the same way I did. I usually did a big load every day or two and did the folding and putting away as soon as the stuff was out of the dryer. Wes saved everything up for Saturday, then had a laundry extravaganza which involved him sitting on the couch in the basement, watching a movie while he sorted and folded a pile of clean clothes taller than me. But it was getting done, and that was what mattered.

As I grew stronger, we shared the laundry duties. I still didn't love our dark, dusty, often-smelly laundry room, but I was content. (ish)

Then one day, Wes said, "I might have bought a washer and dryer this morning."

"You might have?" I didn't understand. How could he not know for sure? It was like me saying, "I might have had a baby yesterday, I don't know, I guess we'll wait and see . . ."

He explained that he had seen an incredible deal online, but that a lot of comments on the site expressed suspicion that the deal was too good to be true. He decided to take a chance, anyway, but when he submitted the payment information, there was no indication that it was accepted.

It looked like it wasn't going to happen, and we didn't think much about it. Then one day about a month later, I picked up the ringing phone and heard a computerized voice say, "Your washer and dryer will be delivered tomorrow."

This was good news; exciting news. But it was not particularly convenient news. Christmas was ten days away. Our oldest son, Sam, was coming home from his mission in five days. And we had no place to put a couple of large appliances.

We cleared a space in our bathroom and hoped it would be big enough (it is an unusually large bathroom, but still . . .). We told the delivery men to put them in the bathroom and we were very glad to see that they fit.

But it was a tight fit. We had to hold our breath and suck in our stomachs to squeeze past the big boxes to get to the toilet. After a few days, our ten-year-old son — who, for obvious reasons, had no real interest in a new washer and dryer — asked what we were going to do with the boxes. We didn't have any ideas. But he did.

We cut the boxes at the bottom so that we could lift them off and for the first time, I got a peek at our new laundry appliances. They were gorgeous — gleaming white with high-tech buttons and dials. In our nearly 25 years of marriage, we had never owned a new washer or dryer. This was a big deal for us.

Getting the boxes off gave us a little more room to move around the bathroom, and our son Adam made a lovely two-room cardboard playhouse in the basement. Our son came home from Argentina, Christmas came and went, the kids all went back to school and Wes went back to work. And the washer and dryer were still in the middle of the bathroom.

I called a plumber who came over and gave me some ideas about where we might install these beauties, but his prognosis was discouraging. There seemed to be no reasonable place they could go, and his price estimates were far higher than we could afford.

So our new washer and dryer stayed in the middle of the bathroom, unused and unusable, for eight months.


In August, I became very sick. I was admitted to the hospital and stayed there for almost a month. My parents, who live three hours away, came to check on me and my kids, and ended up parking their RV in the hospital parking lot. My sister Amber drove up, and stayed by my side at the hospital, occasionally leaving to help with my children or my house.   

My mom is an incredibly good cook, and she prepared amazing meals for me in her small trailer kitchen. My dad brought them to my hospital room, where I ate them happily. (My mother's cooking is a huge step up from hospital food.)

My father is remarkably talented at fixing things. Building and installing just come naturally to him. But he will tell you himself that he's not much of a plumber.

Still, when he saw the washer and dryer sitting rather ridiculously in the middle of the bathroom, his handyman instincts kicked right in. When I finally came home from the hospital and looked in the bathroom, this is what I saw:

I could hardly believe it. My father and my sister Amber had installed the washer and dryer while I was gone. He wouldn't accept any money for the work, but my husband reimbursed him for the parts.

Hurray!

Doing laundry was no longer a chore. It has actually been kind of fun. And we still have the laundry room downstairs, and our kids do their laundry there.

I don't know if this story will mean much to anyone besides me. But when things like this happen, I feel so blessed and grateful. These little tender mercies serve to remind me that life is good. 

☺  ♥  ☺  ♥  ☺  ♥  ☺  ♥  ☺  ♥  ☺   

FAQ:

1.    So, how much did they cost?

$129 dollars each. Free delivery. Wes paid a little more for the dryer because he wanted a gas dryer.

2.    Come on, you can tell us — did your husband really do a good job when he was in charge of the laundry?

He really did. But he thinks about things a little differently than perhaps a woman would. One night, after dinner, I asked him do a load because I needed some things washed for the next day. My dear husband said, "I can't. I have to go Home Teaching in an hour."

Huh?


3.   Is your laundry area always that clean, or did you clean it up for the picture?

Yes. The answer is Yes.

 

Saving Grace

I found the card in our mailbox a few days before Hannah's first birthday. It was a gift card from Baskin-Robbins, wishing her 'Happy Birthday!' and offering her a free small ice cream cone.

We lived in Memphis then, far away from our families. Wes was going to school full-time, and I hadn't worked much since Sam was born three years earlier. Our budget was very tight, and a trip to a ice-cream parlor was a luxury we couldn't indulge in.

The card was good for six months, so I hung it on the refrigerator, thinking maybe we'd get some unexpected bounty before it expired in November. And we did, in a way: just a few weeks later, I learned we would be blessed with a third child. While this was fun news, it didn't seem to make the family ice-cream adventure more likely.

The weather grew colder, and the expiration date grew nearer, so we made a plan to use the card. We would go to the ice-cream parlor, redeem the card, and share the free cone. Then we would stop at the grocery store and buy a quart of cheap ice cream to eat at home.

I suppose we didn't even think about how we looked, a family of four, in shabby coats and second-hand shoes, sitting in a little pink booth passing a child-sized ice cream cone around. Hannah got the first lick, then she handed it to Sam. We each took a small taste when it got to us, and watched with great anticipation as it made the rounds. And, oh, it was good! Wes and I had forgotten ─ and the kids had never known ─ that ice cream could be so good.

It was over too soon, and we let Hannah eat the soggy cone as we wiped Sam's face and prepared to go. But an employee was standing by our booth, looking a little uncomfortable. Wes started to explain that we were just leaving, but she shook her head. "I need to know what flavors you want," she said.

"We're done," Wes said. "We're not getting any more . . ."

The girl stopped him. "You have four large cones coming. It's already paid for. What flavors do you want?"

When this finally sank in, Wes and I were so excited we acted like crazy little kids. We picked Sam and Hannah up and lifted them so they could see their choices. We took some time deciding. This was a big deal, and we wanted to get it right. When we finally sat back down, we happily and messily devoured our cones. We left the shop with full bellies and smiling faces. We wouldn't be stopping at the store on the way home.

Back in the car, I started to cry, quietly at first, and then big messy sobbing, gulpy tears. Part of it, maybe, was that I was embarrassed to know how obviously needy we looked. But the larger part of my emotional display was happiness, gratitude, and love. My load of weariness and worry was lighter that night because I knew that someone cared.

Was this a big thing? Maybe not. I suppose the person who made an impulsive decision to help a small family in an ice-cream shop 20 years ago has forgotten all about it. The employees there have likely forgotten, too.

But I don't think I ever will.

This is the magic of service: what you give is often worth more to the receiver than it would have been to you, the giver. Kind words cost nothing, but can mean so much. And when we serve others with an honest heart, the spirit of service fills our lives and we are blessed, as well.

But as I recall this event now, on Easter weekend, I realize there is more to this story than I thought. The words of that teenage ice-cream seller ring with new meaning.

It's already paid for.

" . . . ye are not your own," Paul told the Corinthians. "For ye are bought with a price."

Christ paid the price of all the agents of disorder in our lives — our spites and our spats, our misdeeds and our mix-ups, our tantrums and our trials, our pitfalls and our pain, our failings and our foolishness, our sadness and our soreness. They've all been paid for.

Elder C. Scott Grow said, "I testify that through His suffering, Jesus Christ already paid the price for your sins. You can be forgiven insofar as you repent. Don’t try to pay the price for your sins. No amount of your own suffering will redeem you; it is only through the Atonement that you receive forgiveness."

I add my witness that this is true. I have felt it in my own life and have seen it the lives of others. Our Lord and Savior came to earth and willingly suffered the pains of all mankind. He loves us and invites us – pleads with us – to come unto Him.

To walk away from this glorious offering would be far more foolish than walking away from free ice cream. It's yours to take. It's been paid for.

And guess what else? You get to choose the flavor.

It's up to you to choose the flavor of your thoughts, your actions, and your life. You can choose the divinely sweet, or you can choose the dark and bitter.

So live your life. Do your best. Remember that the price has already been paid. And you have lots of options. Far more than 31. . .

Happy Easter.

To see last year's Easter posts, click here and here.

Stacie

I have a friend named Stacie. She is a little younger than me — not quite forty — and she has lived in her home with her parents her entire life.

Stacie was born with Williams syndrome, a genetic condition which causes developmental delays and learning disabilities.  Stacie's parents fought hard to get her into mainstream schools with special education programs, and she was able to finish high school, receiving a certificate of completion. Tests show that she functions mentally at a first or second grade level.

And yet, I have learned so much from Stacie.

My Friend Stacie 

Last October, we bought some puffy animal stickers from the dollar store to give to Trick-or-Treaters. We forgot about them, and they ended up in my purse. When I saw Stacie at church I thought about her love for animals and showed her the stickers. She smiled with delight when she looked at them, and when I told her she could keep them, she was ecstatic. She hugged me and said, "Thank you! I love you!"

Since then I have noticed that Stacie has a smile and an expression of love for everyone she knows. I am learning the true meaning of unconditional love from her example.

Several years ago, as part of a Relief Society assignment, I designed a questionnaire to learn more about the women in our ward. One of the questions we asked was "What do like to do most?" Stacie responded that what makes her happiest was "dancing to music and playing with puppies."

I learned a great lesson that day about finding joy in simple things. Now Stacie is teaching me that it feels good to laugh along with other people, even if you don't get the joke, and that it's okay to laugh alone if something tickles you in particular.
                
I asked Stacie to tell me what makes her mad. I could see that she was thinking hard to give me an answer. After a long pause, she said, "I can't think of anything. Oh, wait — commercials. Sometimes commercials make me mad."

Stacie's mother tells me that Stacie does get frustrated and annoyed sometimes, but she doesn't stay that way for long. She always turns back to her sunny happiness. She never holds a grudge.

Stacie is teaching me about acceptance, tolerance and forgiveness.

When Stacie was about twenty, she participated in the Special Olympics. During one memorable race, she pulled ahead of the other runners. For the first time ever, she had a chance to win. The crowd and bystanders cheered as the special athletes ran. Then Stacie saw some LDS missionaries at the side of the track. She moved toward them and stopped to shake each missionary's hand. Seeing her there, the other runners followed her and came to meet the missionaries. After every athlete had shaken every missionary's hand, they started running again    . . . and they crossed the finish line together.

Stacie helped those Special Olympians win their race. And a crowd of people learned a wonderful lesson that day about the unimportance of competitiveness and pride. 

I continue to learn about pure faith. Stacie knows her Heavenly Father loves her. She understands that He has a plan for her.

When Stacie was six weeks old, doctors advised her parents to put her into an institution. They seemed to feel that raising a child like Stacie would be a burden not worth bearing. Her parents rejected this idea and raised their daughter with the same unerring patience and love they showed their other children. Now, looking back, they say, "Imagine all the amazing things we would have missed if we had not brought Stacie home!" 

                      ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ ✯ 

When the Savior told us to become like little children, I don't think He meant we should try to make a bigger mess when we eat, or to forget to wipe our noses when they need wiping. I think He was telling us to be more like my friend Stacie — less judgmental, more hopeful, more full of wonder, more forgiving, more loving.



I am grateful to have Stacie as a friend. When I sometimes fall into the trap of self-pity, I think of the smile I always see on her face, and I remember that life is pretty good, after all. 


To learn more about Williams syndrome, click here.
To learn more about the Special Olympics program, click here.
To learn more about the missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, click here.

To leave a comment on this post for Stacie, click Comments below.