Labor of Love

“I wanted to do it so that I could really understand what they go through in their daily lives.”

I keep playing these words in my mind. My friend, M, never fails to surprise me. And again, I find myself having strange feelings and a mixed reaction. Since the beginning of the year, I have had the pleasure of getting to know him better. It has been an interesting ride. He has the ability to make me feel incredibly insignificant and unadventurous (almost cowardly), and yet, at times when he willingly focuses his attention, I feel like a rock star. It is bitter-sweet, but it is what it is.

Last night, we chatted about various personal stories. At sixteen, M, decided to spend the summer doing hard labor. It was an unusual decision. He wasn't living in a white-trash trailer park or some God-forsaken mining town where doing menial work at that age was the norm. Rather, he was living in the city, where sixteen year old kids were typically preoccupied with getting their hands on the latest record or a pair of trendy sneakers. His reason was that he needed to know, to understand what it is to truly go through a life doing what most people did not want to do. He figured that only by living that kind of life would he then be able to connect to people of all walks of life. He had empathy beyond his years, and he wasn't just some kid who talked the talk. He walked the walk.

Laborers have always intrigued me. The work of a laborer is frequently unappreciated. It is dangerous and requires one to risk life and limb at times. I suspect the many laborers seen at various construction sites attempt such work because it is their only way to earn an honest living. Whenever I pass a construction site, I try to peer and look at the faces of these men. I want to catch a glimpse of the spirit that endures them to this type of work, to guess in any small way the story of their lives. Some wear the desperation of a dull and back breaking life on their faces. Others take it in their stride, laughing and whistling as they go about their work. I often wonder what gives there.

But as much as I peer and try to conjure up in my mind what it might be to be in their shoes, my friend did one step better. He was one of them. I never did quite question him in detail the friendships he made during that summer, but I can guess a little. I was driving behind a pickup full of laborers this evening, when I noticed a beautiful moment between a small group of them. It was apparent they have had a hard day. Their faces and their clothes were grimy with dirt, dust and soot, and they looked physically battered. Yet, the grins that they had for one another were so refreshing it illuminated the entire scene. One man had a bottle of water on him. He took a couple of sips, poured a little out onto a cloth and wiped his face with the damp cloth. When he was done, he passed the bottle on to the next guy. There was no need for words. The camaraderie was undeniable.

That’s when I realized that laborers labor with love. They work so that their families can have better lives. They work with friends who lookout for each other and care for one another. And, then there is my friend, who worked so that he could love laborers for who they are. I am humbled at that thought, and some what envious: envious at his passion for life, envious of his inner-circle and those he deigns to love this unselfishly….