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.

Thanks so much for stopping by. I'm here most mornings with a photo and a few words about ordinary extraordinary things and, sometimes, thin places where faith intersects.

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