The dishwasher has an attitude problem. It works great for awhile and then decides to go on strike and do little to no cleaning. This inevitably happens at the same time our dish usage multiplies. The piles of dishes fill most counter space and if I have any hope of feeding my family again, it is time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
It is one of those rare occasions where I am all alone The oldest is off to school and the youngest is still sleeping. As I fill the sink and watch the bubbles rise, I realize I find joy in this simple act.
There is something holy about working with your hands. I believe God has made us for this work. It brings a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment but it is so much more than that.
I grew up as a camp kid. We spent many weekends washing dishes for retreats. That small kitchen with little room was where our family worked side by side, each with our own role. I learned to serve at that sink. I learned about life and family there. We would walk away with wrinkled hands and tired feet but what I did not realize is that I also walked away with a lessons that cannot be learned anywhere else.
I have a deep appreciation for dish pan hands. It is home. It is the simple acts that tie us to a sense of place. It is the soil on which we are planting lessons about faithfulness and service. It is sacred ground. My grandfather always said, “Never be ashamed of calloused hands,” but I think I am going to change it to “Never be ashamed of dish pan hands.”