I am grateful that I don’t have to do laundry the way women once did, dragging their soiled linens to a stream and pounding them against the stones.
I am grateful that I don’t have to cook food for my family over an open flame, always worried a wobbly toddler might accidentally pitch forward into the hearth.
I am grateful that I don’t have to preserve food in order for my family’s survival. The weight of the work must have been nearly crushing when it was the only thing standing in the way of starvation.
I am grateful that the work of my hands isn’t what keeps my children clothed. That torn out knee must have been heartbreaking if you raised the sheep, carded the wool, loomed the fabric, and stitched the garment.
I am grateful for this modern age.
I started thinking those first words earlier today when I was piling dirty clothes into our washer. Even with a machine to do the work of washing and drying, I still mumble and moan about the work of gathering and folding under my breath. But suddenly, remembering how far we’ve come made me reorient my thinking and instead feel widely, impossibly grateful for the epic conveniences of modern life.