I am sitting down to write this. The desk looks like a writer’s desk: lovely black walnut. The computer looks like that of a writer: word processor perpetually open and the lettering on the keys starting to fade from overuse.
But I myself do not look like a writer right now. I am fairly certain I do not even look like what most people would consider a preacher right now. I am covered in dirt, sweat and grass clippings, and my clothes are so tattered and worn that Goodwill would not even begin to accept them.
It is Labor Day, and I have been laboring. In fact, my entire family has been laboring alongside me here at the house. We have gone several weeks working day in and day out at the church and have neglected things around here, and I am determined to catch up on home chores this very day.
We have mowed and trimmed and hauled off branches. We have weeded flower gardens and moved rocks. We have hauled off junk that has been behind the building since the day we bought our house and land. Why was there an old shower out behind the building? I have no idea. I cannot begin to fathom why someone ever wanted to keep it.
Nonetheless, we have moved mountains today. My children are a bit perplexed; they do not seem to grasp the concept of laboring on Labor Day. I send them to the dictionary to look up the definition of the word labor, and that does not seem to satisfy them.