I love the smell of a hot iron on cotton. It takes me back to when life was lived at a slower pace. When time was spent on a hot summer afternoon ironing shirts. A warm breeze whispering through the curtains making them dance and sway, a distant sound of a lawn mower providing the music to which they move. The whirr of a fan offering promise of respite from the relentless heat. A mother wearing a cotton dress, ironing her husbands cotton shirts, and a child sitting on the floor nearby playing quietly still sleepy from an afternoon nap.

Working on a quilt I am taken back to this gentle quiet time whenever I stand at the ironing board pressing pieces. Breathing in the smell of the hot iron on the fabric calms and grounds me.

When I iron my husband’s shirts each the movement of the iron over the fabric presses and seals in my love for him and my contentment with our life.

What a gift it is to be able to be quiet for a while to iron a shirt.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.