A man just came to pump out our septic. His name is Raymond. He does this for a living. Pumps human waste out of people’s septic tanks. The job is not glamorous to be sure. But the worst part about Raymond’s job today is the weather. It is sunny and beautiful today, from the window of my spacious warm home. But out there, it is less than 20 degrees. The wind is blowing. And this man is standing, the bitterly cold wind beating him like a prizefighter, his face red and wind-worn, attending to his job. His integrity will not allow him to leave his post. His integrity makes him beautiful to me.

If he were to slip into his truck for comfort, or come into my home for a cup of hot chocolate, an accident might occur. So, instead, he nobly, quietly, and with absolutely no fanfare, does his job. This is a job which many others would rather starve than do. This job that feeds him and pays for his ill-fitting jeans. It may even feed a family. And so, for no less than 20 minutes, he attends to his duty. Then, meticulously, he detaches the hoses and lifts them around the truck, systematially snapping them into place. He shuts the valve and contains the stink. This morning, before he did our septic tank, he did another family’s septank and after ours he will do still more septic tanks until is workday is finished. The, after an evening with his family or his cat or his television, he will get up tomorrow morning and do it again.

All of this could induce in him a justified bitterness. He could be spending his days bemoaning and recounting the injustices in life or the travesties of a thoughtless and uncaring government that have led to him doing this work. and those who heard this tale might agree with him and they might even sympathize. Or, they might, with inflated self-righteousness think to themselves, “I have my own cross to bear. You are here because you cannot do much else and you ought to be thankful to have this steady work.” All these thoughts are meandering through my mind as I stand and observe this man, this probably very good and tender man, doing his duty.

As I am lost in contemplation of what our conversation might amount to, he arrives at the front door. I asked him to come in and warm up a minute while he filled out the invoice. I want to give him something. I want him to know of my gratitude. I say to him, “Come in and take a break from the cold.” He thanked me and came in to do the paperwork and collect the money. I waited with greedy anticipation for his view on life. Would he complain about the cold? Would he whine about the stink and the awful state of the economy and his job and any number of things? Come, man, give me something. But all he said was, “This is beautiful country out here.” Then he thanked me. He thanked me for the opportunity to serve me by taking away the contents of our septic tank. He, to me, is a hero. This man does what he has to. There are millions and millions of Raymonds out there. People who get up each morning and do what they have to take care of themselves and their families and never complain about it. They are all heroes.