The invisible work of washing dishes

This week I finally took down the jar of advice rocks from the high living room shelf. The rocks, a wedding gift, are each inscribed with a piece of marital advice from the ladies who came to my bridal showers. I set the jar in my lap, removed the lid, and grimaced when a layer of dust rubbed onto my pant leg. Was I about to receive a rocky talking-to about all the cleaning I hadn’t done?

I was pleasantly surprised. In the black Sharpie script of good country women, the rocks wore ageless dictums: “Love never fails,” “Trust in the Lord with all your heart,” “Learn to overlook.” The counsel ranged from controversial (“Obey your husband even if you don’t understand why”) to deeply wise (“Always love in trust”) to seemingly impossible (“Be humble”). To my glee, one of my flower girls, age 7, had written, “Jonathan should change diapers.”

At last in my sifting I came to the firm reminder about cleanliness I had expected. On a small, smooth stone, a woman had written, “Never go to bed with a sink full of dirty dishes. If you can’t wash them before bed, rinse them and set them beside the sink.” The piece of advice, more extensive than the others, had leaked from the front to the back of the rock. It was the kind of advice I wish very much I followed.

If I turn my head from where I sit, I can stare down the collection of dishes that sit half swallowed in my sink’s silver mouth. I do not mind washing them. In fact, I even enjoy it once I get going. But my motivation to wash dishes meets with one perpetual obstacle: I know that dish washing is work that evaporates.

If you wash dishes, you know about its pleasant aspects: You get to stick your hands in warm sudsy water that smells like soap, your fingernails become impeccably clean, you get to have plates to eat from, etc., etc. But you probably also know that after you wash, dry, and re-shelve dishes, it starts all over again as if you hadn’t done anything. All that motion from sink to rack to cupboard dries up like water. It seems that if you and your family are to go on eating and living in peace, your hands must become perpetual, anonymous prunes.

But that, I am learning, is the link between cleanliness and love. At the Chinese restaurant my husband’s parents often take us to, the zodiac placemats say I am the kind of person who prefers anonymity. That is part of the reason I put no stock in the Chinese zodiac. In my gut, I am much more a performer who seeks applause than a servant who seeks obscurity. I would rather invest my moments in building a visible monument to my labors. But washing dishes is invisible. Perhaps somewhere in heaven we will stumble upon the almost-infinite monument to all the dishes our mothers washed. Until then, I am trying to be like them and take the rock’s advice.