My grandfather was dying of pancreatic cancer, not a good time for anyone in my family. My family was basically living at my grandparents alongside most of my cousins and Aunts. It was a day like most of the others; the moms were stressed and worried, and sensitive, and the boys were all outside playing. When my Aunt asked me and my other girl cousins to do the dishes. Instead of jumping up to help, we grumbled and, at the suggestion of a cousin, hid ourselves to avoid the work. Unsurprisingly, my Aunt found us, but instead of yelling at us or imposing some other punishment, she cried. She cried about how hard life was and how we shouldn't be selfish; we needed to help right now. I felt awful, and right there and then, I decided I was not, and would not, ever be labeled as selfish again. A choice... a moment... that forever changed me.
From that day forward, at every family gathering, every church potluck, or party, I would be the first to jump up and wash the dishes. If you didn't know where I was, check the kitchen, and there I'd be, by the sink washing away. In many ways, this new part of me served me well. When I'd jump up at Grandma's, my Aunts and Uncles would sing my praises for being so kind and good. At church, I was thoughtful and helpful. In every choice to wash another dish, the chorus of "you are good and valued and loved" followed me. For a while, it worked... okay, longer than a while, it wasn't until the last few years that I realized, this dishwashing part of myself had involved herself in much more than just the dishes at the family gathering.
Suddenly, much more than dishes were piling up. Every burden and challenge the world offered, the hurt and trials of family and friends, my own sadness and pain, it was all piling up taller and taller. And there she was frantically doing the dishes left and right. It was her only way to control, the only way to protect herself, the only way to keep the security of "you are loved, needed, valued," and that little voice inside whispered "this is who you are". But now? Now... I'm so... tired.
Here's the problem with the endless parade of dishes: it took a while, but I started realizing that I sit with my soap and my sponge in my elbow-length bright yellow gloves and just want to wash those dishes. Clean them up, fix the problems, and off we go, onto the next! Here's the thing, though: I can't wash someone else's dishes. I just...can't. No matter how much she wants to, with her gloves and soap suds ready.
It doesn't work... they just don't come clean.
So there she is, gloves on, surrounded by dishes mine, ones others have given her, ones she has taken, promising and hoping that this time... this time she can get them clean. And she cries... she cries... she looks at the tower of dishes and cries. it hurts, it hurts to leave the dishes... I hurt because this is who I am... if I can't clean the dishes then... then what?
Truthfully I don't want to stop washing dishes. It is part of who I am, a valued part of who I am that serves the whole well, but it's not all that I am. When the dish towers are too high, when I've lost track of which dishes are mine and which aren't. When she looks at the mess and cries. I am with her. I want to ask her to come over, come sit on the couch with me but she can't not yet. So instead, I go to her. I take her yellow gloved hand in mine and say "you are more than this. you are more than the dishes you do. you are not the dishes you don't do. you are good, and valued, and needed." Together we stand at the sink... and she cries and I cry because it does hurt... and that's okay.
Today we cry together and tomorrow... tomorrow... tomorrow, we'll leave tomorrow for another day.
