Hands
I’m probably thinking about the things that went wrong with this bench.
Hands
I nearly forgot how important working with my hands is to me.
With my current assignment I’m spending lengthy hours behind a desk, on conference calls, discussing specifics of schedules, and preparing briefs. There have been a few dozen days where I’ve spent more time in my office than out of it in a given 24 hours. It’s been the nature of the beast.
Everyday I drive past the softball fields a few blocks from my office and sometimes see folks playing. I occasionally miss the callouses I’d get from swinging a bat a few thousand times a season when I was a kid.
Other days I see crews cutting the grass or even just digging in the dirt. I see various skilled tradesmen performing their craft in the summer heat. And for some reason, I find myself caught somewhere between empathy and jealousy.
I’ve taken a strong liking to the “Essential Craftsman” youtube channel and its podcast offshoot, EC2 (shameless plug). In a recent podcast episode, Scott Wadsworth and his son Nate spoke about the seductive pull that blue collared work can have on men with white collared jobs. Scott cautioned men who were considering leaving their well-paying, air-conditioned office jobs for the chance to work with their hands, effectively being able to see a result of their labor, usually with a substantial pay cut.
This isn’t to say that I don’t see the fruits of my labors now. I see it in the accomplishments of my team and my organization, which are significant. I see it in the livelihood I am able to provide for my wife and children, which is comfortable.
For a few years as a younger man and before joining the computer chip manufacturing world, my father framed houses. For about 40 years, his father worked on cars or drove school buses or a laundry list of jobs he’s worked. I grew up toiling with my Dad in the backyard picking up rocks so the mower wouldn’t eat them, or handing him and Grandpa Bob another socket as they coerced one of our old cars into submission, or, as I wrote about previously, throwing a baseball around.
Equally as important has been the tremendous contribution to the intellectual and spiritual domains of life that my maternal grandfather has provided. As a leader of both flock and family, Grandpa Oliver knows the absolute criticality of our spiritual health. As a priest for many decades, he’s been the spiritual patriarch and rock for many of us. Virtues are learned, and he’s quite the teacher.
But he works with his hands, all of the time. He celebrates mass. He holds Christ Jesus. He holds his great grandchildren. And he, just like the rest of these formative people of whom I constantly speak, continues to be a part of my own story, and will be forever.
I must also add that the wives of these three men -- our late beloved Nanny, my sweet Grandma Oliver, and my own dear mother -- had their own indelible influences on my life (stay tuned, that post is coming). In their own ways they’ve supported the work of their husbands and sacrificed alongside them through lengthy work weeks and countless hours of overtime. My wife is heroic in her efforts every time my job takes me on the road for months at a time as she cares for our young girls. All of these women have spent years working with their hands, loving their families.
I’ve come to the conclusion that although I miss working in my humble wood shop (okay, a garage), mowing my own grass, and sometimes wonder if I’d be happier doing manual labor, I’m grateful for the work done by the hands of the important people in my life. I’m grateful for my own work. I’ll keep on keeping on. It’s a worthy fight.
1 Tim 6:12
-MJVW