Laundry:  the chore that never ends.  It is not difficult, and it is not time-consuming.  It’s just never “done”.  It can never actually be checked off the To Do list.  If it weren’t for the fact that I have no interest in it, I might go as far as to join a nudist colony – just to avoid laundry.  Well, maybe not.  But it’s certainly a good selling point.

It’s also one of the few chores that has multiple steps required for completion.

Step 1.)  Wash

Step 2.)  Dry

Step 3.)  Fold

Typically, it’s Step 3 that I avoid: folding.  And I can’t even identify why I don’t like it.  Maybe because it’s tedious.  I’m actually just as likely to wear an outfit I found sitting in the dryer as I am to wear an outfit neatly hanging in the closet.  And if others can’t tell, why does it matter?

But this time, I’ve been stuck on Step 1:  washing.  Night after night, I’ve sat in the closet, unable to complete Step 1 of laundry.  Because of Chris’ last load of laundry.

There are hundreds of things I miss about Chris.  His smile, his laughter, his horrible singing, his even worse dancing, his obsession with NC State recruiting, the way he played tag with Finley, running around the house like a giddy child.  But one of the things I miss most is his smell.  I loved the way he smelled.  And it’s something I know I’ll never experience again.

And the last load of his laundry is all that’s left of his smell.  It’s the only place I’ll be able to experience that.  It’s not even his normal scent, but rather his “been in bed for a few days after surgery” scent.  Which I have to admit, I love a little less.  But it’s still all that’s left.

So I waited.

Then somehow, on a random Tuesday evening in late July, I did Chris’ last load of laundry.

I know that sounds insane.  He died over a year ago.  So obviously, that last load of clothes was there for a while.

And had I admitted and published this particular barrier months ago, I can imagine what would have happened.  I would have publicly admitted that I knew I needed to tackle this one load of laundry.  And I’d hear you out there, telling me to “be brave”, and “you can do it”, and “God’s got this”.  I’d hear you shouting your words of encouragement to me.  Some of you may even have said, “Just wait until you’re ready.”  Friends, this laundry has been sitting here, unwashed, for 15 months.  It’s time.

I never planned to do it that night.  I had a ton of other things to get done.  Emails, my own laundry, grocery shopping, playing with Finley, bills, etc.

But somehow, after putting other clothes in the dryer, it suddenly seemed like the next load to wash.

After 15 months of that pile of laundry just sitting in the closet, night after night, that night it seemed right.

In the past, when I tried to get up the nerve, I ended up just sitting on the floor in the closet, crying.

But that night, as I picked up the basket, I smiled.  There were some tears welling up, but they weren’t the same.  They were happy tears.  Remembering memories.  And realizing I could do this.  I could do this baby step.  And I would be okay.  Because something else happened too, that night.  Something completely unexpected.  Something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.  And something I’m not sure I realized that I had not truly felt… until then.  Something that others have told me, something that I’ve said out loud to others, but something I’m not sure I really believed until now.

On a random Tuesday in July, after coming home from work, walking Finley,  and sitting down on the couch to enjoy a little homemade dinner and finally watch a little Netflix, a wave of normalcy sat down with me.  A normalcy that had eluded me for months.  But, out of the blue, it walked right back in, like an old familiar friend.  And I realized, for the first time, that I’m going to be okay.

That although life has not gone at all how I planned, I’m going to be okay.

That although I’m rebuilding my world on my own, I’m going to be okay.

That although I stumble and bumble and take missteps, I’m going to be okay.

Sometimes, I think my fear is just in letting go.  If I let go, it symbolizes that something is changing, that something is ending.  And sometimes, I’m not ready to accept that change.  Or that end.

But that night, sitting with a random meal, and a random movie, I finally felt normal again.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest tasks that weigh on us the most.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest of the baby steps that can impede our progress.

Sometimes, it’s the tiniest rocks that stop our momentum.

Sometimes, the greatest barriers are the ones we put in front of ourselves.

So, I took a baby step, I removed a barrier, and I accomplished Step 1:  I washed the laundry.