The laundry seems eternal:
another load of whites
another load of darks
piled high in anticipation
of a soapy wash cycle.
I sigh over the never-ending
presence of my laundry,
constant need for attention
. . . . . . .
and then a chuckle
a roll of laughter as I realize
that you, O my God, are in fact
a Holy Pile of Laundry
eternally present
and ever calling!

(To complete the Holy Trinity
and my playful unorthodoxy:
is Jesus then
the Cleansing Washer
and the Spirit
a Tumble of Hot Air?)

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