Pants Stretchers for the Soul

Mama’s laundry room was the side porch. We had a washer, a green metal porch chair, a laundry basket, a bag holding the clothes pins and a clothes line in the back yard. When we were babies, she washed our clothes and diapers in the tub so a washer was a real luxury. And this wasn’t the old wringer style... a tub for automatic washing but you had to feed the clothes through two bars to wring the water out... it was fully automatic. When the machine stopped, the clothes were ready to hang on the line. That was the chore reserved for Gayle and me. We learned to look for snakes under the line in the summer time, put on gloves in the winter time, how to hang a continuous line of clothes with each item connected to the other one (socks were an exception), and how to use the least amount of line space for large items. Clothes dried in the sun were crispy, not soft, and smelled of the outdoors. My children insist clothes dried on the line at my parent’s house smelled like cow but they just smelled like home to me.
One of the greatest inventions for clothesline drying was the pants stretcher. In the era before permanent press material, everything had to be ironed. That included daddy’s heavy denim work pants. It was a hot, hard job to iron those pants and unbearable in those pre-air conditioned summer days. Pants stretchers were an aluminum frame designed to slide in the wet pants, expand and click into place, stretching the pants as they dried on the line and reducing greatly the number of wrinkles. They were almost pressed when you took them off. We overlooked the struggle to insert the pants at the right angle, and the occasional collapse under pressure because anything was preferable to ironing those work denims.
I wonder if there are any soul stretchers like those pants stretchers that pulled the heavy fabric taut. It seems to me that soul stretchers could provide some growth and save us some anguish. How would one stretch one’s soul?
One way to stretch my soul is to put the quieetus (a southern word for cut that out) on one of my bad habits, the habit of judging other Christian expressions of faith as less than if their theology is different from mine. This habit reflects a holier than thou attitude, the assumption that I know what the ultimate truth is. Even if my mouth says I know better, my heart and soul often are grumbling underneath about those others. Going to the New Baptist Covenant Gathering in Atlanta this week will give me a chance to practice. There will be twenty eight different kinds of Baptists there, all colors and denominations and various theologies. Every one will hear one of their own preach, regardless of the labels. I will be sharing soul space with other Christians whose view of the Scripture and Jesus and God will differ greatly from my own and it will not matter. The whole point of this gathering is to affirm our likenesses not our differences. That ought to stretch my little liberal soul some.
Another soul stretcher is to worship occasionally somewhere other than in my own church and denomination. It is so easy to settle in, settle down and assume your way is the best and only way to approach the Almighty. I remember when Michael and I were wandering in the wilderness looking for a new church home several years ago. We, life long Baptists, visited Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, other Baptist churches and Greek Orthodox churches, participating in worship. The variety of language and ritual was astounding. Michael’s dad was for years a liaison with the black Baptist churches in Alabama. We worshiped in African American churches all over the south and loved the energy and noise and rituals of worship there. I, of course, loved being one of many women wearing hats.
The most difficult soul stretcher for me is the practice of silence. Many years ago as a young mother, I would go to a mother house for the Sisters of Loretto for a weekend retreat every two months or so. The silence was frightening at first. My fatigue level was so high I would sleep for the first twenty four hours, waking only to eat and read. After the rest, I was bathed in silence, surrounded by nuns, removed from all my activity aids, pushed to quiet and reflection by my surroundings. Often what floated to the surface of my restless soul brought tears to my eyes and I would weep for no reason I could name. The external silence created internal silence and I could hear my soul creaking as I settled into the quiet. Worship, eating in silence, walking the grounds, reading and reflecting would soothe me during the second twenty four hours. I found myself aware of my breathing and my body and soul expanded, full of the Breath of Life.
Finding that quality of silence in the middle of my days is next to impossible. Even when I turn off the phones, cut off the television and go to the porch, I am surrounded by my "to do" list. Everywhere I look, I see something or someone who needs tending and finding the silence is difficult. Maybe this week I will practice silence every morning. If I rise a little early and just sit, be still and listen, something might happen. Maybe I will go back to sleep. Maybe I will be able to catch my breath and feel the brush of the Spirit’s wings on my soul. Maybe I can learn to just be still and know that God is present in my lying down and my waking up. Be still and Know...