W is for WASHED

Monday was always wash day at home. From early morning, often before breakfast, mum would be hard at work, going through her usual ritual that would occupy most of her time until dinner. For most of the week the washing machine sat, hidden in a corner under the worktop of the scullery, a small room beside the kitchen where most of the food was stored and the washing up was done. It was a strange looking machine, about the height of any modern washer but much more square at the top, being only about a foot and a half in both directions. A silver lid covered its opening and while it portrayed a white metal outer surface, inside it was just plain grey. Jutting up though the centre was a rotating 'pole' that kept the clothes moving slowly around the container and perched on the top was a mangle that folded down into the body of the machine when being packed away. On the front were just a couple of blue controls, that resembled light switches and a large, flat red 'button' that could be pushed to stop and start the process.

Washing clothes was not an easy task. First of all, as the machine was not plumbed in, the inside container had to be filled with water. This was usually done with the aid of a small hose attached to the cold tap in the scullery. Then, after the water had reached the required temperature, the clothes were placed inside, some Daz or Persil flakes sprinkled over the top and the lid closed. The washing process usually went on for a good hour after which mum would take each piece of clothing out, start up the mangle on top and thread everything through the rotating rollers to squeeze out as much water as possible. The clothes would then land in a basin on the other side and when all this had been done, she would carry the basin of damp clothes out to the washing line and hang them using the wooden clothes pegs that she stored in a mushroom punnet. The two washing lines consisted of nothing more than long strands of wire tied between two trees in the garden and which hung precariously low , at about neck height, when not being used for their intended purpose. When all the clothes were in position she attached a long wooden pole with a small slit in one end to the wire and raised it up so that the line became taut and the clothes began to move freely in the breeze. And when it rained, she would bring her lot into the kitchen and use the inside clothes line that stretched along one side of the room and where the clothes dried by the heat of the old Wellstood cooker. Then when everything was done, the washer had to be drained of water, again using the hose and packed away until next Monday. No, washing really was hard work.

Our washing machine at home is rarely off since the boys were born but I'm thankful that it can do most of the work itself and also that the tumble drier sits right next door on those rainy days. It's still a chore for the good woman but I dread to think what it could have been.

Sometimes it is hard to explain to the sceptic how 'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,' and Isaiah's statement, 'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' How can anything as red as blood make something so clean and white? Yet when I glance at some of the coloured liquids in the supermarket that I put my faith in to physically make my shirts clean and white, I begin to see why I put my spiritual faith in the power of His blood to cleanse me and I know He can remove even the toughest stain. My blood could never have done it but Jesus rose to meet the challenge. And you know, you don't have to wait until Monday!