Food truck Mondays

In which I ponder the solution to existential crises.

I know you all are sitting on tenterhooks for my next installment in the laundry series and that being presented with a title and picture so seemingly disconnected has you “disequilibrated.” Trust me, my current muse will make an appearance. But first, a little explainer:

When Chip was in pastoral ministry, he came across the phrase that graces the title slot in this post. The phrase may need unpacking for those unfamiliar with the Monday blues of ministry: You’ve just delivered a sermon and (probably) run a worship service and (potentially) presided over the communion table and (highly likely) taught a Sunday school class of some kind or another. For some folks, the perception remains that pastors work “only one day a week.” I could argue till I’m blue in the face, but that would do no one any good. I know experientially what Mondays mean, and that must suffice.

Mondays mean it’s back to all the more hidden work of pastoral ministry…deflated from Sunday’s work. Many pastors choose Monday as their day off to try to offset the feelings of insecurity, fatigue, and low spirits that come after Sunday. Many begin daydreaming about other vocations—ones with seemingly more freedom and less pressure. Vocations that serve people what they need, but where you can turn off the sign, close the door, and feel satisfied that your job is done for the day. Food trucks, for instance.

I’m sure those from other vocational expressions may have a similar pattern. Though I have been a pastor’s daughter and wife, I have had a degree of separation from what that role feels like. Though a hair’s breadth from them, these burdens have never landed on my own shoulders.

But Mondays still “find me cryin’ all the time.”¹ The angst starts on Sunday night and by Monday morning it has become a fully-formed existential crisis in which I question everything: where we live, what we are doing for work, why we studied what we studied, how to connect the dots between our past and our future…Only one thing is certain in these moments: the present.

You’ve heard the old adage: nothing’s certain except death and taxes. I learned today that the quote is attributed to Benjamin Franklin and concerning the constitution. The full quote, in its original French: “Notre nouvelle constitution est maintenant établie, tout semble promettre qu'elle sera durable; mais, dans ce monde, rien n'est certain excepté la mort et les impôts,” means (my translation/paraphrase) “For now, our new constitution [of the United States of America] is established, and it seems that it will endure—but in this world, nothing is certain except death and taxes.” I put the full quote here to reinforce the fact that I have sought certainty that I cannot find in this world. For me: nothing is certain, except someday passing into the arms of Christ…

…and laundry. There’s always laundry.

Perhaps that seems a grim conclusion. Laundry hanging from a line can bring images of Dickensian London. Smog-infused linens draping dark alleyways; soot-smudged faces; skies above and river below: grey, grey, grey. I admit, there were (and still are) times Laundry has come with these dreary images and the despairing thought of days of drudgery following one after the other. In my youth, I truly viewed it as a chore. In Dublin, where we had no choice but to use the clothesline—we had no dryer, nor did most families we knew at the time—laundry presented a particular puzzle for the person tasked with “drying the clothes.” For those who somehow don’t know anything about Ireland, this is how it looks most of the time:

Leading to some fantastic innovation that I, myself, never saw or experienced during our three years in Dublin:

I digress. [But really, it’s such a worthy cultural rabbit trail. This video gives a taste of Ireland that you would otherwise not get unless you lived there. First of all, just imagine a climate that makes such an invention necessary and celebrated! And for those of you who have been there, I can imagine your smiles and chuckles as you nod knowingly at the cultural depth represented in this mere minute-and-thirty-five-second video].

Drying laundry was more battle than joy in our Dublin days. I grumbled and griped along with my classmates about wearing a uniform to school, but the reality is: woolen uniforms needed washing far less—during the time of year when there was far less light and far more rain than usual—than any trendy clothing we teens might otherwise have been tempted to don. And really, when the only alternative is to hang your wet garments on the radiator, creating an environment comparable to a steam shower on its last legs…well, you can understand why laundry was not a pleasant prospect in our semi-detached house in Rathfarnam in the early 90s.

Though I now live in Appalachia, where many days look and feel like the Irish days I once knew, there are also days that remind me of the line we had in Colorado. There, the thin air and sunshine created an arid environment where clothes immediately, almost apologetically, relinquished their coveted humidity into the atmosphere. We took garments off the line almost as soon as we had clipped the last one on.

As you can see, Laundry connects me to my past. I hang things on the line as much for the nostalgia it imbues as the fresh air imbued into it. When I ask the questions as I’ve asked above a million times “What am I here for? What is my purpose?” to quiet, kind wuffling (and sometimes tempestuous, fierce buffeting) wind—the only reply—Laundry keeps me grounded, connected to what’s really real. You see, when I’m questioning the value of my existence, my words, my thoughts, my (often pitiful) actions, I can know with certainty that the act of doing laundry always loves and serves my neighbor…that loving my neighbor always honors the Lord (and often takes heart, soul, mind, and strength—remember that tempestuous wind). Laundry is faithfulness.

Does this mean I do not long for more? If you have read any of my other musings, you know this cannot be true of me. Like Paul, I strain towards what is ahead while also awaiting the Lord’s perfect timing. “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him. It is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord,” (Lamentations 3:25-26).

Everything else may be tenuous and unclear. I may wake up with the Monday blues and everlasting questions. I may not see how the past connects with the future. But I know with clarity and confidence: When Mondays arrive, there’ll always be laundry.

1. From Monday, Monday by The Mamas and the Papas