Life on this side of the church can be strange. Beautiful. But strange. Especially when it comes to the laundry.
Recently I washed what I would estimate to be 30,000 white tablecloths belonging to our church. Is that my job? No. Was I happy to do it? Sure. I'm a mom. What's a few more loads of laundry? Like a few more drops to Niagara. Plus, I like helping out in ways that require little more than dumping things into the washing machine, dryer, and then sending them out the door with my hubby. That's easy cheesey. Yumm... cheese...
The laundry around here can get weird though. It seems common place now to search black shirt collars for forgotten collar studs abandoned by their wearer and sure to rip holes in my bed sheets (true story - the hole was totally round like a crop circle).
Black shirts fade to gray and yet continue to fall out of my dryer warm and ready to be hung. No need for ironing work shirts around here.
Albs are a different story. When I head toward our laundry room and see a large white ghost hanging out nearby it I know it's time for the oxiclean. Ring around the collar (eeww - tmi), port wine stains (yummm... wine...), and candle drippings are just a few of the things that can grace the alb. Have you ever ironed a huge tablecloth that has a hood and billowing sleeves? Yes? Great, then you're ready to be part of a clergy family.
Our laundry is never ending. If I were to write one of those online quizzes titled something like, "Are you ready to be a Mom?" one of the questions would be, "To what degree is your sanity based on the amount of laundry you do?" and if people answer in such a way that demonstrates a strong correlation between amount of laundry looming and sanity, I'll recommend they get a goldfish instead.
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