LIfe Lessons and Building Nests

A few years ago I was an office manager at an agricultural consulting firm. During the spring, our consultants would take soil samples from farmer’s fields to test them for lime content. Soil testing was dirty, mind-numbing, and tedious work. Because of the sheer volume of testing that had to be done, we would hire seasonal help to perform the tests. This particular story is about Charles, one such temp.

Charles came to our firm right after graduating from a prestigious college with a degree is molecular science. He was a Man of Science. Though he was really sweet, every time I was around him I got tongue tied and shy. I was just so impressed with everything about him; his credentials, his personality, his work ethic, even his appearance. The man was at least 6’ 5” tall! Testing bag after bag of soil in a hot, dusty barn didn’t seem to bother Charles at all. He was grateful to have a job, and he did his best to make sure he earned his paycheck. He was delightful, intelligent, and unassuming. But still! He was a Man of Science! Men of Science know stuff. Important stuff! That was enough to inspire a little bit of hero worship in me.

One afternoon I was enjoying a break from my desk by wandering outside for a few minutes. We were temporarily out of soil to test, and I saw that Michael, the owner of our company, was talking with Charles in the parking lot. When Michael left, Charles disappeared into the barn and came back out a moment later carrying a bucket. As I watched, he stooped over (and at his height, he really DID have to stoop) and started weeding our stone-covered parking lot.

I was appalled! What was he doing? Is this what Michael had told him to do until more soil came in to be tested? This was not the sort of work a Man of Science should be doing! This was busy work! This was menial labor! This was insulting! Pulling weeds, for heaven’s sake? I was horrified, indignant, and just plain miffed on his behalf.

Though I stewed, I noticed that Charles didn’t seem to share my sense of outrage. He was humming while he worked, perfectly content to being doing what he was doing. His humility and easy acceptance only made my harrumph worse. I went back to my desk convinced that Charles was a saint. Simply a saint!

Later that afternoon I made up an excuse to go outside and check on Charles and his progress. He was back in the lab, a truck load of soil samples having been delivered for him to test. There was a pile of weeds waiting to be tossed into the dumpster, and I decided I’d relieve him of that particular duty. It was the least I could do, I felt.

Before I could take a step toward the pile of weeds, the most remarkable thing happened. A robin swooped down to the pile, grabbed some of the weeds with its beak, and flew back to the rain gutter that bordered the barn. He dropped the weeds into the gutter, spent a few moments arranging them, and then flew back to get more to add to his collection. Back and forth he flew, taking what he needed to make his nest. He worked with amazing single-mindedness and purpose. I stood in absolute awe and watched a Life Lesson unfold before my very eyes.

The work that Charles had done, work that I had thought of as menial and demeaning, made it possible for that robin to build a nest. And that nest would someday soon provide a place of safety and shelter for his mate when she laid her eggs, and later raise her young.

I’m sure Charles already knew the lessons that I was learning all over again. Nothing is menial if done with the right heart. Nothing we do is without repercussion, good or bad. Humility is not weakness, it is a strength. Pride is a poor companion that benefits very few. Sometimes the most life-giving gifts are those done with very little fanfare.

Now I know stuff, too. Important stuff.