There are certain sights that instantly transport us back in time.
For some people it is the smell of fresh bread. For others it is the sound of a train whistle drifting across an autumn evening. For me, one of the great sacramental sights of childhood was a clothesline stretching proudly across the backyard.
Growing up on our southern Ontario farm, laundry day was never a small affair. It wasn’t merely washing a few shirts. There seemed to be enough towels, overalls, socks, tea towels, work shirts, bedsheets, and mysterious garments belonging to visiting relatives to outfit a respectable-sized village.
The clothesline sagged under the weight of family life.
My mother could pin a sheet to a line with remarkable efficiency. I once attempted to help and somehow managed to hang a bath towel upside down, backwards, and folded over itself in a manner that prevented any actual drying from taking place. It was, in retrospect, a remarkable engineering accomplishment.
My contribution to household efficiency was politely appreciated and quietly discouraged.
Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that modern civilization prides itself on inventing machines to save labour while simultaneously creating enough extra laundry to keep everyone equally busy.
There is a certain truth in that.
These days most of us rely on dryers. They perform admirably. They are fast, dependable, and entirely lacking in poetry.
A clothesline, however, possessed character.
The breeze became a silent partner in the day’s work.
Sunlight completed what human hands had begun.
The ordinary labour of washing quietly surrendered itself to gifts that only creation itself could provide.
I have often wondered whether that is not a rather beautiful picture of the Christian life.
We spend a great deal of effort trying to clean up our lives.
We pray.
We repent.
We make amends.
We attempt new habits.
We wrestle with old temptations that apparently own long-term leases on our hearts.
Yet none of these things, by themselves, complete the work.
Eventually every soul must be hung out into the fresh air of God’s grace.
Only the Holy Spirit can finish what our determination begins.
That realization comes as something of a relief.
Many Christians secretly imagine that holiness is achieved by gritting one’s teeth with sufficient enthusiasm.
The Gospel suggests otherwise.
Grace has always preferred gentle breezes to clenched fists.
Paul reminds us that “the fruit of the Spirit” grows within us (Galatians 5:22–23).
Fruit, of course, is not manufactured.
It grows.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Almost imperceptibly.
One morning you notice that you are a little kinder than you once were.
A little less defensive.
A little quicker to forgive.
A little slower to panic.
You cannot quite explain when the change happened.
It simply did.
The wind of God has been doing its quiet work.
Jesus himself compared the Holy Spirit to the wind.
“You hear the sound of it,” he told Nicodemus, “but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes” (John 3:8).
The Spirit has always been wonderfully difficult to organize.
Church committees occasionally attempt it anyway.
The results are usually entertaining.
God’s Spirit has an unnerving habit of ignoring our carefully prepared agendas in favour of transforming actual people.
This can be inconvenient if one is particularly fond of agendas.
It is splendid news if one happens to be an actual person.
Perhaps that is why the saints seem so refreshingly unforced.
They rarely appear to be straining for holiness.
They simply spend enough time exposed to the fresh air of God’s presence that the fragrance of Christ gradually becomes noticeable.
Not because they tried harder than everyone else.
Because they stayed on the line.
Perhaps today you feel rather like an old work shirt after harvest.
Life has been muddy.
Heavy.
A bit stained around the edges.
You wonder whether anything fresh remains.
Take heart.
God has never expected you to dry yourself.
The One who washed the feet of frightened disciples still knows how to restore weary souls.
Sometimes all we are asked to do is remain where grace can reach us.
Stand in the light.
Receive the breeze.
Trust the slow work of God.
Eventually even the oldest towel begins to smell like September sunshine again.
And that, I suspect, is one of the quiet miracles by which God has always renewed the world.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Lift our hearts into the fresh air of your grace. Wash away what weighs us down, and let your Holy Spirit do within us what we cannot accomplish on our own. Teach us to be patient with your gentle work, trusting that, day by day, you are making us more like Christ. May our lives carry the quiet fragrance of your love wherever we go. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.