folding fitted sheets

I saw this on pinterest last week, and I chuckled. Who doesn't hate folding fitted sheets? It's a hassle. They never seem to come out perfectly.

If you are reading my blog, you probably know me well enough to know that I am not a fastidious housekeeper. When I was growing up, my younger sister eventually had to take on more chore duties than I did, precisely because I was not as good as she was at getting things clean and tidy (sorry, Kate!). Now that I'm older, I hope my home is clean enough so that no one is uncomfortable in it or endangered by it, but that's about as far as I go.

However, for some reason I just keep thinking about this sentiment. I think about my distinct memory of my mom, instructing me on how to fold a fitted sheet. I think about the care it takes. I think about god, who is not a god of disorder; who is a god of beauty. I think about the earth without form and void, about god calling light out of darkness, and about Adam giving names to all the animals. About monks returning to their same tasks and their same liturgies day after day. About the one sitting on the throne and making all things new.

And I think life is long enough to fold fitted sheets, if it brings some order and beauty to my corner of the world, if it shows care and respect for those things with which I've been entrusted.

In fact, I think I have decided that folding fitted sheets is exactly what life is for.

(incidentally, I just realized that this image is the cover of a book. This post is not about the book, which I know nothing about -it's just about the cover sentiment.)