Labor Day...

I know I have said this before but I don't take Labor Day to be a day to rest but to remember (isn't that suppose to be done on Memorial Day...) those who labor so I can live. I am thankful for those who plant, harvest, ship, and market all that I eat and drink as well as wear, buy, etc.

I work at 5000 ft. elevation, in the most beautiful site on earth where people are willing to come and reflect on the life and love, death and resurrection of Jesus. But there is a whisper beginning to be audible, can't make out the words but the heart is towards those who labor. No plans, no call, just a change of heart.

It is not a passion, it is more of a turning of the head to notice, to begin to understand, to... I don't know what. But my head has turned.

My father was a businessman. Bought an ailing printing business and turned it into a financially stable concern. He treated the people who labored for him with dignity and respect. When times got hard, he paid them before himself and we would eat rice and beans and a little hamburger during that time. My mom made it into a feast. He would tell my mom what was going on in these people's lives over dinner. Births, sickness, immigration, new homes, educational achievements, etc. I would hear more about their lives than I would about my cousins, aunts and uncles. It was never gossip, complaints, or bitterness.

He didn't have much turnover while he owned it. Most who left started their own business, a few became his competition, but most became his subcontractors. Instead of hiring people to replace them, he would job out that particular printing process to them. Never an enemy, always a partner. Respect. Integrity.

My dad was an artist, he painted on Sundays. While we were at church, he was in his studio painting. He worked Monday through Friday, and on Saturday mornings. It was his passion. Business was what he did so that we could live and he could paint, sculpture, make cut glass windows, etc. He never despised his work, he understood work, he also understood art. His life was a ballet of sorts. The libretto, music, and choreography working together to produce an event, a family, a life.

We lived near vineyards, orchards, packing houses, and subdivisions. I went to school with farmer's kids, migrant worker's kids, line worker's kid, airline pilot's kids, and business owner's kids. All with ballets going on in their own homes. It was a good place to be raised.

As the scripture tell us, "Train up a child, in the way they should go and when they are old they won't depart from it." Maybe the whisper that I am hearing is a return to the way that I was trained up...