In one of his little uncommon prayers for the “miracle and muddle of the ordinary,” Brian Doyle thanks God for the lanky computer technician who solves his catastrophe, saying, “we never say thanks enough for people who can do well the things that we cannot even imagine doing poorly; but this morning, for a moment, you and me together, standing closely but not holding hands or any of that sort of thing, should do so.” And so today, in my best attempt at an echo of Doyle’s uncommon prayers, here’s my prayer for Labor Day.
Because this holiday is for all of us. Not just for the union picket marchers of the 1890s or whenever “labor” was a word appearing regularly enough in newspapers to make a holiday of it, but for you and me, and all our kids and mothers and fathers and cousins. Never mind that some of us aren’t paid for such labors, or that some of us live in countries where labor doesn’t get a holiday but most of all needs one. Still let this be for all of us, because we’ve each got something to give of our own sweat and grey matter and plain old creatureliness during this little stretch on earth. And so thank you Lord, and thank you reader, and thank me, and thank all of us this day. Thank-us.
Thank-us. For the people who count birds and do their darnedest in the battle to prevent them from dying away; for the ladies in the low-income apartments who keep their doors open when the kids like me and my best friend come looking for after school snacks; for the lines of people running the machines that sew every blessed seam to keep our shirts and shoes and lawn chairs from unraveling; for the people who answer the phone and absorb our cascades of curses and then follow their instructions to say “I’m sure we can help you with that” even when it isn’t true; for the people amidst towers of books silently compiling snippets into histories of people they know mattered even with the rest of us don’t even know they existed; for the people who sit in the awful plastic recliners of hospital rooms holding the pale hands of the dying and saying something or saying nothing; for the desk clerks of hotels and motels of every price who witness the unclenching of exhausted souls as they hold out the plastic keycard for tonight’s temporary home. And shouldn’t we pay us well? And make sure we can go to doctors and retirement homes when the time comes? And say thank you? Isn’t that the least we can do, for all of us along this weary way doing our best to make this temporary home a home? And so thank-us. And thank you. Amen.