I'm Thankful for Dirty Dishes.

As much time as I spend writing about faith and gratitude, you'd think contentment would come easily by now. You'd think I'd be so busy finding joy in small things and feeling giddy over simple blessings that I'd never have wonder how to be more thankful ever again.

But here's the deal: I write about it because a grateful mindset doesn't come easily to me. Sometimes, when I find blessings in the ordinary passing of my life, they seem just as ordinary as everything else. So I share these stories, not because I'm especially gifted at being thankful in all things, but because cultivating gratitude feels like training for a marathon—just when you think you've got it, WHAM! Shin splints.

And sure, there are days when I'm overflowing with gratitude. Days when I'm walking with my head in clouds, all but oozing thankfulness. Every time I watch my oldest daughter run across the parking lot of our church, my thankful heart swells with joy...because not so long ago, she couldn't walk at all. Every time I study my youngest daughter's bloodwork, comparing every cell count so carefully, cross-referencing everything against her genetic mutation and the threat it imposes, I'm overwhelmed with thanksgiving...because as her doctor once said, "There's a dark genetic cloud over her head...but it's not raining yet."

Between my childhood, the challenges of my life since then, the ongoing battle of single motherhood, and the constant effort to build something with my writing, it's easy to get discouraged. To feel defeated. To forget about choosing gratitude—and overlook the 'small blessings, big impact" moments.

If you know me, or if you've been following along here, you probably know how much I love seeing God in the ordinary moments. You'll know how much I use those moments as the guideposts of my life. And you won't be surprised by the idea that finding joy in chores is...well, it's not exactly my thing.

So what if I tell you that a few years ago, my gratitude practice was forever changed—when a sink full of dirty dishes washed me?

I mumbled his name, but we both knew it wasn't a prayer. "Jesus," I said, "It's like they're freaking multiplying!" I was standing at the sink for the umpteenth time, my water-logged fingers covered in soap suds. My glasses were smudged, my hair kept falling in my face, and I was sick and tired of washing dishes.

There are only three of us in this house. How could three people dirty so many dishes, over and over again? Why does it feel like I can clean the dishes, turn off the water, wash the stove, wipe the counters, dry the sink, turn around...and there will be more dishes?

The worst part? Dish-washing is easily the chore I hate most. It's an endless cycle of tedious silverware, slippery water glasses, giant coffee mugs, and plates smeared with stuck-on food—or worse, covered in soggy, wet globs of unidentified gross. But with my food allergies, it's the one chore I can't trust anyone else to do.

It's like I'm stuck in my own personal Groundhog Day, with one singular thought circling my mind like a swarm of irritated bees: I. Just. Cleaned. This. Kitchen!

But that day, something changed. Maybe it was the cold floor against my feet that made me thankful for hot water on my hands. Maybe it was a brief flash of remembered delight as a soap bubble popped. Maybe as I washed those dishes that day, they washed something just as dirty out of me. Or maybe Jesus answered the words that weren't prayer.

I watched, my grumbling silenced, as my hands moved. As they picked up a plate and held it under water. Water that was warm and clean and fresh on demand. I stood there on legs that (still mostly) work, and my hands reached for the bottle of soap. Two pumps on the sponge. Soap that kills germs and breaks down filth. Soap that protects my family.

Somehow the world itself seemed to still as I picked up the last plate. The water seemed louder. The silverware, shifting in the miniature tide at the bottom of the sink, seemed brighter. And I washed away food particles made of provision, smudges and smears made of safety—each one a word in the story of a family who has enough.

We don't have much. Our place is small and cluttered. Our battered car runs on prayers and miracles. Our biggest splurge is Chick-fil-a, and the fanciest thing we own is probably those dishes.

But if it rains, we go inside. If we're cold, we grab an extra blanket. We flip a switch and light fills the room; we hit the tap, and water flows.

Those dirty dishes are evidence of a life that's still happening. And while they may sometimes look like a disorganized pile of chaos, those plates and bowls are proof that someone was able to walk to the kitchen. Proof that when someone hungry opened the fridge, they found sustenance.

I turned off the sink when I finished, and wiped the stove like I always do. I wiped the countertops, and I dried the sink. I shined the faucet. I hung the towel...and as I stood looking at vintage china lined up in a Walmart drying rack, I cried for seventeen-year-old me.

It was easier for her to keep her kitchen clean.

Because the fridge was empty.

*****

I've thought about that moment so many times since then—partly because I'm still always at the sink, and partly because that lesson in grateful perspective came so abruptly that it still feels scalded into the tissues of who I am as a person.

It's funny how something so normal can become such a turning point. No fanfare, no lightning bolt of revelation. Just a reminder that everyday gratitude is right there in the mess, if we just pause long enough to notice it.

I wish I could say that I never complain anymore, but I don't always get it right. Some days (alright, fine, most days), I still mutter under my breath when I look at the dishes in the sink. I'm still learning contentment, and I still have to remind myself that gratitude isn't a feeling—it's a focus.

Gratitude changes everything, because it moves us from wanting more to noticing more. It opens eyes weary with exhaustion, and shows us how to honor the blessings we used to pray for. And every time we choose to see blessings over burdens, every time we make mindful thanksgiving an active practice, we make something meaningful of the moment we're in.

And that, my friends, is how we...

Maybe it's the coming winter and an urge to hibernate, but I'm craving less noise and more meaning. I don't want endless newsfeeds and pointless reels; I want deeper conversation and genuine connection. If you're feeling that too, consider this your invitation to a better, more gentle way to keep in touch. With my weekly roundup, you can sip your Monday morning coffee perusing a curated collection of my content, created just for you. The best part? It's simple—and free.