I hated doing the dishes. There was something about them that held a repulsive barrier to my sensibilities of cleaning up after a meal.

It got to the point where I’d leave them piled until a girl I dated would come over as she loved doing them.

Then something changed.

Doing the dishes stopped becoming a chore and become a meditative exercise. A time for prayer.

A psychological feeling of freedom: life might be chaotic and the home may be in disarray, but there’s one external thing I can control—clearing the sink.

It’s a small feeling that life can make sense.

Even for a moment.