Thirteen-year-old me would be shocked to hear this, but I love washing dishes. Strategically analyzing the optimal washing order to maximize space in the dish drainer while also saving the greasiest, sauciest, stickiest items for last, the satisfaction of wiping the newly-cleared counters, signaling a job well done, the dry skin stretching tightly over my hands between drying them and having the motivation to get some lotion out of my room.

My heart was initially softened to the dishwashing process at Greyhouse. While I loved pouring lattes and conversing with customers as I served them, the dishwashing station offered a sort of haven during hectic shifts. There were no staff to manage or questions to answer, just a single-minded focus on maximizing each two-minute cycle of our commercial dishwasher, creatively named Hobart after the manufacturer prominently stamped across its front.

These days, I’m more likely to be running a photoshoot at Greyhouse than washing dishes, but my appreciation for dishes has continued into my home. Not all the time, of course—sometimes, I’m just washing them because our counter has reached its carrying capacity or because I know I’ve used my roommate Rachel’s pan of choice or because we’ve somehow run out of spoons, and while I can stir honey into my tea with a knife, I cannot eat soup with one. And I can say with some amount of confidence that I will never appreciate washing my Crock Pot.

But other times, for me, dishwashing approaches the sacred. This is especially true when washing dishes after Sunday dinner, Rachel’s and my weekly rhythm of hosting our friends. I’ve prepared a meal for some of my closest friends (if it’s my turn to cook), Winston has probably brought a bottle of wine to share, we’ve spent a few hours in the joy of being present with one another, we’ve said our goodbyes and see-you-laters, and all that’s left is to clean up. Dishwashing gives me a chance to reflect on the night, the stories, jokes, and vulnerabilities shared. A part of me is grieving that these nights cannot last forever (but maybe their finitude is what makes them special). A part of me is strategizing optimal dish order. And all of me is thanking God.

These moments remind me that I want to practice living in the presence of God in the midst of the mundane. That I want to continue to grow in loving and serving my friends. 

And that I want to remain enchanted with dishwashing.