Working Man, Family Man
Working construction all day and farming every night, John put food on the table by his sweat and the mention of his name. Work, family and a quiet reverence for God kept him going. Still into his 80s, he drove his car up to his backhoe, and with his cane, managed to pull his slender six-foot frame up into its seat to dig a ditch or grade a drive.
Not knowing if he’d get paid for his work, he had the faith of a farmer to put seeds in the ground and send his crops to market. He worked to live but he lived for his family.
Pap’s passion for life dimmed when his wife died a few years back. Now his flame was just a flicker. But life always came back in his eyes when he lifted his grandbabies with his leathered hands, fat with calluses and stiff from arthritis. He lowered them to his face as their pudgy fingers reached out to touch his wrinkled skin and wiry grey hair. Then he’d softly kissed them to bless their new life. And for a moment his world made sense. This tough old farmer melted, his pain no longer mattered.
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