The Labor That Gives Us Life

I'm writing this on Labor Day—a day set aside to recognize the people whose work keeps this country moving.

For most of us, work has schedules. There are weekends. There are holidays. There are vacation days that we count down to and look forward to.

For farmers, even specialty farmers like us, there is another boss in the equation.

Her name is Mother Nature.

She decides the hours. She decides the growing season. She decides when things bloom, when they're ready, when they aren't, and sometimes—no matter how hard you work—whether you get the result you hoped for.

One thing is for sure: farmers don't always get the vacation time that a traditional 9-to-5 job provides.

Today, I'm still working on the farm.

I'm potting plants that will eventually make their way to farmers markets next year. I'm watering plants that have recently been thinned, replanted, newly planted, or are growing in pots.

It's peaceful work.

But it's still work.

My primary job is a remote position where I sit at a computer most of the day. So getting outside and working with my hands feels like a blessing. It's work after work—but it doesn't feel quite the same.

Instead of going to bed mentally exhausted and achy from sitting all day, I get to go to bed with a clearer mind and muscles that are sore from some much-needed physical activity.

And I've started to realize something.

Some labor extends our lives. Other labor improves our quality of life.

Both matter.

When I was a teacher, I felt an enormous passion for helping children grow into their best selves. I felt purpose in that kind of labor.

There were so many moments of joy.

The moment a child finally understood something they'd been struggling with. The proud look on their face when they accomplished something they didn't think they could do. The happy voices calling out across the school:

"Ms. Berry!"

I loved it.

But that labor came with a cost.

It was difficult on my family and on me. I couldn't contribute much to our savings. If

something broke down or a medical emergency happened, there wasn't much financial

cushion to help. I worked at home. I worked on weekends. I graded papers and caught up on paperwork when I should have been spending time with my family.

That was part of the deal.

You give a lot. You receive little financially.

But teachers keep going because they believe they're making the world a little better.

And I believed that, too.

Then I got married and became a stepmom almost overnight.

Suddenly, I wasn't just responsible for myself.

I was living with a child full-time, and it didn't take long for our family's needs to become very apparent. My stepson needed a lot from us.

And I found myself facing a really painful realization.

I was spending my days helping other people's children grow, but I was coming home with very little left to give my own family.

That realization hurt.

I almost felt selfish for admitting that passion alone wasn't enough anymore.

I needed to labor for a different purpose.

So I made a change.

I found an amazing job.

I could work from home. I made more money. I was still working in education. I was serving our military.

How freakin' cool is that?

And I LOVE my job.

But if I'm being completely honest, I'm not passionate about it in the same way I was passionate about teaching.

I work my booty off, though.

I'm American. It's what we're taught to do.

My job provides for my family. It gives my stepkids the opportunity to explore their own passions. It means my husband doesn't have to carry such a large financial burden by himself.

It is incredibly important work in our lives.

But the transition was hard on my body.

Sitting all day wasn't good for me physically. And for a long time, I struggled with something else, too.

Where was that feeling I used to have at the end of a day of teaching?

That feeling that I had done something good for the world?

I used to joke that I was doing God's work every day.

Now I was helping specific customers and supporting a specific group of adults in training roles.

Important work.

Good work.

But where was my passion?

I struggled with that question for years.

And then there was Daylily Connection.

I didn't realize it at first, but this little farm started giving me something I had been missing.

When people travel from all over Indiana—and even from other states—to visit our farm, something happens.

They spend hours here in their happy place.

They talk about flowers with excitement.

They tell me stories.

They smile.

And I feel it.

I feel like my labor is making a difference again.

Maybe not in the same way teaching did.

But in a different way.

I feel it when I finish weeding a bed.

I feel it when I get a plant potted just right.

I feel it when I dig a daylily and somehow manage not to break a single root.

Sometimes I catch myself smiling.

And that's when I realize:

I found my passion again.

Not because I stopped needing to work for my family.

Not because my primary job became less important.

And not because farming is easy.

It's because I finally understood that labor doesn't have to serve only one purpose.

Some labor pays the bills.

Some labor builds a future.

Some labor serves other people.

Some labor keeps a family together.

And some labor feeds your soul.

Daylily Connection happens to do a little of all of those things for me.

I get to imagine someone planting one of our daylilies at home.

Maybe months later, they walk outside and notice a new bloom.

Maybe they stop.

Maybe they take a picture.

Maybe, for just a moment, they forget about the dishes, the bills, the job, the traffic, the hard day—or whatever else is weighing on them.

Maybe they simply stand there and admire something beautiful that God created.

That's labor I can get excited about.

Because maybe making the world a better place doesn't always mean changing the whole world.

Maybe sometimes it means making one person's world a little happier.

And maybe that's enough.

So this Labor Day, I'm thinking about all the different kinds of work we do.

The work we love.

The work we tolerate.

The work we do because someone we love depends on us.

The work that builds something for the next generation.

And the work that reminds us who we are.

To all of the hard workers out there—especially the ones who sometimes wonder whether what they're doing really matters—I hope you remember this:

Your labor doesn't have to change the entire world to matter.

Maybe you're changing the world for your family.

Maybe you're making life better for your children.

Maybe you're helping one customer.

Maybe you're growing something that someone else will enjoy years from now.

Maybe you're simply putting one foot in front of the other and doing what needs to be done today.

It all matters.

Because the things we labor for today become the things we leave behind tomorrow.

And maybe the greatest gift of labor isn't simply what we accomplish.

Maybe it's what our labor makes possible for the people who come after us.

So I'll keep learning.

I'll keep growing.

I'll keep getting dirt under my fingernails.

I'll keep laboring to make the experience of our daylilies a little more beautiful, a little more

joyful, and hopefully a little more meaningful.

And I'll keep reminding myself to stop and smell the roses.

Well...

In my case, the daylilies.

Happy Labor Day. 🌸