歪歪漫画

My mom, Marcia, didn鈥檛 have a dishwasher, so she spent a good amount of time standing at the left side of the double kitchen sink after meals, especially during farming seasons like harvest and haying when she served meals for her family and a half dozen or more hired hands.

My job was to stand at the right side of the sink and rinse, dry and put away the dishes that came my way.

While I came to the job more grudgingly than joyfully, by the time I finished, I was in a much better mood thanks to my mom鈥檚 unfailingly cheerful attitude and the conversations we shared.

While her hands were immersed in soapy water and mine holding a dish in one hand and a towel in the other, we talked about our cattle and crops, the news of the day and depending on my age, the topics varied from how to survive 鈥渕ean girls鈥� in elementary and middle school and the angst of a high school crush.

My mom was the kindest, loving, most faith-filled woman I've ever known and also one of the most practical, no-nonsense and strongest. She listened to my worries with compassion and then told me what she thought I should hear, which is not always what I wanted to hear. Though I often didn鈥檛 appreciate that at the time, later I would realize the wisdom in her words and that her advice was spot-on.

After I grew up and moved to college, and later to my own home in Grand Forks, North Dakota, those dish washing and drying conversations became more infrequent, limited to when I came to visit.

The tradition was revised when I moved with my husband, Brian, to my great-grandparents's home, where my grandma and my mom grew up. Like my mom, I didn鈥檛 want to install a dishwasher in our kitchen, but instead, wash the dishes by hand.

The reason that my mom and I didn鈥檛 want dishwashers was more practical than philosophical 鈥� we didn鈥檛 want to sacrifice the cabinet space for the appliance. The conversations and bonding over washing and drying dishes were much more valuable than having more room to store dishes.

When Brian and I were childless after seven years of marriage and discouraged about ever being parents, my mom listened and sympathized with me. I knew that she also was saying silent prayers that I would become a mom.

When that happened and Brian and I were overwhelmed and sleep-deprived taking care of our firstborn son, Brendan, talking to my mom while she was doing the dishes was familiar and soothing. If I had to take a break to feed, change him or put him down for a nap, my mom calmly continued washing dishes and talking, unfazed by sometimes having her voice drowned out by a wailing baby.

Her positive, gentle voice and unshakable faith that, with God, we can face any of life鈥檚 challenges, calmed me and put my life in perspective. It did the same when Brendan was a toddler and became independent. I still remember sitting in front of the kitchen door that leads outside to block him from getting his trike and riding it to the road, which he had slipped out and done earlier.

As Brendan had his tantrum and I was almost crying myself because I was as frustrated by him as he was by me, my mom continued to wash dishes and talk to me about a visit to her friend鈥檚 house earlier that day. Her serene demeanor in the midst of chaos calmed both Brendan and me more than unwanted advice to me and intervention to Brendan ever would have done.

Contributed / Ann Bailey

As time went on and my firstborn became an older brother to a younger brother, Thomas, and then a sister, Ellen, the topics of our conversations evolved from taking care of toddlers, to preschoolers and elementary and middle school children.

My mom delighted in the adventures of her grandchildren and laughed at some of my frustrations with raising them, recalling that I was not a perfect child, either, and exasperated her sometimes.

When my mom grew older, it took longer for her to wash the dishes and sometimes when she had left my house I had to re-wash a few that she hadn鈥檛 thoroughly cleaned. It was tempting to tell her that she had more than put in her time washing dishes and relieved her of the duty.

I didn鈥檛 do that because I knew that helping me made my mom feel good and that I needed to own my impatience and to realize that I should enjoy the extra time with her and that a few specks on the dishes weren鈥檛 worth hurting her feelings.

My mom died 12 years ago on Sept. 7 and I鈥檝e missed her everyday since then. I often think of our days spent in front of the kitchen sink and imagine us standing there talking about things and her replying gently, patiently and kindly, with wisdom.

I am so grateful that I listened to God鈥檚 voice telling me not to encourage her to stop doing dishes because that would have washed away so many memories I now hold dear.

Ann Bailey lives on a farmstead near Larimore, N.D., that has been in her family since 1911. You can reach her at 218-779-8093 or abailey@agweek.com.