The Work of Others

Thanks to the bi-weekly ritual of the blood draw for INR (blood clotting factor), I had a little time before leaving the house yesterday. I decided I’d scrape away that thin layer of snow covering the cement steps between the house and the garage. The job only took a few minutes but in the sub-zero wind chill my face was already stinging by the time I finished. So were my fingers, in spite of the gloves.

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought, reaching for the door handle to enter the garage. “Yeah, not so bad as long as you don’t have to be out in it all day!”

I was glad, suddenly, that I wasn’t one of those whose lot in life doesn’t provide for their day’s work to be done in the shelter of warm walls and steady heat. I don’t have to spend my day delivering mail to people too frail, too weak or too lazy to clear the snow from their steps and walks. I don’t have to earn my daily bread by crawling under houses to thaw out and fix frozen water pipes. I don’t have to climb up into frozen air to repair broken utility lines or climb down into the city’s sewers to assure the unthinking continuity of modern life. I don’t work 24-hour shifts so the streets will be more conveniently driven the day after the storm.

While I may be aggravated by the continual cold and the nuisance of blowing snow, I am still able to admire the shapes and shadows on the drifted fields as we drive to work. While enjoying the beauty of the winter, I will try to remember those whose bodies ache from the wrenching cold, whose work is often ignored, often taken for granted. And I will remember, too, the pain that paid the price of my sin and I will be grateful. His work, too, is often ignored, often taken for granted.

H. Arnett

About Doc Arnett

Native of southwestern Kentucky currently living in Ark City, Kansas, with my wife of twenty-nine years, Randa. We have, between us, eight children and twenty-eight grandkids. We enjoy singing, worship, remodeling and travel.
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