(On this Thanksgiving morning, you might enjoy this wonderful poem from a Canadian mother, on the philosophy, nay, the very theology, of washing dishes, a noble act filled with spiritual significance. I do not own a dishwasher, and hope never to. So on with the scrubbing, and a joyful Thanksgiving to all! Gratias Deo! Ed.)
Hail Valiant Knight of the Modern Maid!
With your scouring power you come to our aid.
Saving us from rawness and dryness of hand
Or sore feet as for countless hours we stand
Scrubbing, and washing and rinsing the dishes
The dear Lord has heard and answered our wishes.
Instead of cleaning the millions of plates and cups and spoons
Because of your efforts we can clean other rooms.
Or tend to the concerns of a babe’s scraped knee
Or by heavens even enjoy a blessed cup of tea!
A fearless defender of your maiden’s sanity you fight
The battles of dishes as you work through the night.
Tireless you are in your pursuit of the good
A beautiful clean kitchen is your goal as it should
Be to save your maiden from the treacherous tower
Of dishes that pile up, up, up by the hour!
I could sing of your praises by night and by day
And how Zita’s merits must have brought you our way.
A friend of all good housewives and working womenfolk
You give us the time for a laugh and a joke.
And so with a Hail! And a Hurrah! To your work
We praise the Lord God for this contemporary perk.
But alas! I write as only one who day dreams
Of the conveniences and comforts that a dishwasher seems
To bring those who have its modernistic defence
And, sigh, with my hand washing I must commence.
I will continue to walk through the muck and the mirk
And learn to accept my duties without shirk.
And yet in this dirty water I begin to see
A cathedral, a cross: eternity.
In silence I gaze out my country window
Appreciate the beauty, a gentle wind blow.
And so with each dish comes a scrub and a prayer
For soul that God loves, or a cause that needs care.
And though I must say my heart longs for your ease
And how I wish that my Saviour would answer my pleas
For you to rescue me from my cross and my fate
A soul can be saved from the washing of a plate.