Nothing puts a marriage through the ringer more than laundry.
In fact, I suggest we have marriage vows that say “ . . . for better or worse . . . or until the laundry separates us.”
Young innocents heading into marriage believe times will be tough when the toothpaste tube is squeezed in the middle or the toilet seat is up in the middle of the night.
No. It’s the dark socks in an all-white wash load that will color the blue bird of happiness.
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Now, I’m not trying to hang Bill out to dry in this story, but washing and drying the clothes -- at least my clothes -- can be an issue.
The last time we had to sort out the wash-day rules was about two years ago when he returned from a month-long rafting trip down the Colorado River. Being the helpful guy that he is, he washed his very sandy gear in the new washer.
I followed with my delicate intimate items. Without going into too much detail, I was irritated for weeks.
Just yesterday, I decided to launder my very nice -- and expensive -- black moleskin slacks.
I added a few of Bill’s dark knits to the mix. Then, I walked away.
The rumble of the dryer an hour later had me sprinting to the laundry room, my head spinning.
Yep. I have very nice expensive black moleskin slacks -- slacks that used to fit.
I have to admit that this put a wrinkle in an otherwise good day. Despite Bill’s good intentions, nothing would soften my words.
Nevertheless, like a pair of comfortable old jeans, we ironed things out. But it was I who was really in the wrong: Guilty of being over-agitated? You bet.
Stained by sinful behavior? Indeed.
But thankfully, God promises to wash our sins away and make our heart whiter than snow.
I think I’ll trust Him with my dirty laundry.