I was the youngest of three sons in my family. My brothers were five and seven years older than me and handled most of the housework that my mom and dad needed done around the house. I spent most of my time then riding my bike, playing basketball, walking in the woods, or reading books by our stove in the winter. I spent my childhood with all the fun and none of the responsibility.
By the time I entered my early teens, however, both of my brothers had moved out of our home. My dad had injured his back and become disabled. We had moved to a mountain top house. I soon found myself then doing more work than I had ever done before. I planted our garden in the spring and mowed the grass in the summer. In the fall I carried and collected wood to keep us warm in the winter months to come. And all year round I carried heavy five gallon containers of water from a mountain spring back to our house so we could have water to drink and cook with.
At first I complained to myself. After a while, though, I began to find joy in helping my parents that I loved so much. I sang to myself while I collected wood and smiled while I carried water. I even found myself helping my mom with the dinner dishes and cleaning. I started to realize something that I would carry with me the rest of my life too: When your work is done in love, it isn't work.
Let all of your work be done in love then.
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