My girls were scheduled to do a few clogging numbers yesterday at a car show in our small town. Yes, you read that right. Trust me. When you live in the foothills of Appalachia and your town is named Bean Station, you’re bound to find yourself at a car show some Sunday clog dancing. I wouldn’t have it any other way. And despite the fact that the our hearts were broken this year when the girl’s dance school closed, we’ve managed to pick up the pieces as best we could and keep dancing here and there. (Thank you Tessa and Heather!) The love, discipline, hard work ethic and overall high standards of Lakeway School of Dance still lives on in my girls. We will be forever grateful.
Before heading out to church, we packed the green t-shirts, the tap shoes, and the cooler full of retro sandwiches. (I was in state of Sunday morning emergency and had to buy the sandwich fixins at the gas station, which meant white bread, somewhat sketchy sandwich meat and Kraft slices. My girls were thrilled at the softness of the bread, but I couldn’t get to the grocery store fast enough this morning to get some respectable meat. The six pack of Oreos, which cost more than a whole pack at the grocery store, totally made up for what was lacking in the throw-back sandwiches.)
We had to scoot out of the service a little early to make it on time to the car show.
When we got there, the sound system was blasting with sixties tunes. The souped up cars and the old men who love them reminded me that there’s something kinda quaint about both. My adorable nephew and my very talented brother in law restore old cars and I know the endless hours of meticulous work that goes into making a car look like that. I scouted the place for a car that might parallel Corey’s beautiful black Camaro, but I didn’t find one quite as stunning and perfect. Or anybody as cute him either!
The girls looked around with wide eyes. They murmured about the difficulty of dancing on that make shift stage to a handful of old men who’d rather be looking at cars.
They did great. They danced like it was a sold out crowd of their peers. They did as they’ve been taught so well by the best of teachers—don’t leave anything on the stage but sweat.
I wander how often we wish our work was for more than just our children, a few blog readers, or an ungrateful boss. How often we wish our time to shine would come—that someone would notice the hard work, the long hours, the faithfulness?
Be sure of this. Someone very important notices. And we’re not here to keep tally or to demand results from the work we do.
We’re just here to do good work, thankful that we have a job to do and someone to do it for—be it one tiny 3 month who can’t say thank you or a handful of men in Carhartt jackets who’d rather be talking carburetors.
Don’t wait until someone important shows up before you do your work well.
Just keep your nose to the grind and do good work.
Don’t do it halfheartedly. Go all out. Bring your A game.
The excellence and integrity with which you do your work will light a fire under those around you.
You will kindle something special in your circle of influence, not just by what you do, but by how you choose to do it.
So, Light it up.
Like it’s dynamite.
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And speaking of doing good work and not squandering our gifts away, did you remember that tomorrow, we’re gonna meet here at my place and share our {UN} words of the year? Whatever word you want to {UN}do in your life, declare it on your blog, or FB, or IG, and share it with us tomorrow, where we’ll link up our posts and share our stories, using the hashtag #unword2014. Hope you’ll join me, Nester, Darlene, and Angela as we kick some words to the curb!