From the fruit of his lips a man is filled with good things as surely as the work of his hands rewards him.

Well, the worst of the snowstorm has passed, and I’ve just finished shovelling a narrow little valley from the door to the plowed street, cutting through a knee-deep — sometimes waist-deep — sea of soft, fluffy snow. I don’t work with my hands nearly enough anymore, and it feels good — really good, to look out the window and see that clear path winding across the buried sidewalk to the road below. I guess Calvin’s (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) dad was right: shovelling snow does build character.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom.