I write this post with a heavy heart and a list of genuine concessions:

1. Everyone is entitled to understanding. That is, everyone deserves to be understood by those who will compassionately listen and learn.
2. There are those who have benefited–and those who will always benefit–from financial, educational, emotional, and spiritual support. Their support is well-deserved, temporary, and essential for a new and better life.
3. Single parents with low-paying jobs cannot often afford to work, for the costs of daycare and transportation prohibit it.
4. More money can solve some problems for some people, but not all problems for all people.

A pile of neatly folded laundry, a stack of graded student essays, late summer flowers cut back, lawn chairs hosed and housed in the garage, and windows so clean that the scent of Windex persists for days. The fruits of my labor. Still, as satisfying as these tangible fruits may be, there is something profoundly more satisfying in the virtue of labor, the very act and completion of a task–any task, great or small, extraordinary or menial.

As I was painting my entry way last week, my granddaughter begged to help me paint. At age 7, she loves to play, but she yearns to work at grown-up tasks in much the same way as I do. She understands–and is wise beyond her years–that as much as well-meaning adults wish to give her a self of worth, ultimately only she can find this worth through what she does and what she contributes to greater causes. The fact that the greater cause is an entry way to her grandmother’s modest home in rural Iowa makes no difference. It is the virtue of the work and a cause beyond herself.

How I wish that all humans could know the genuine virtue of work , the profound satisfaction of completing a task, a day’s labor, and ultimately, a career. After seven months of retirement, I would be less than honest if I did not admit that there are days during which I flounder, restless in the present hours without school bells signaling the start and the finish of a day, the passing of one class to the next. There are mornings that open terrifyingly with countless possibilities, choices to be made–all of which are at my discretion. What to do, what to do. . .

I have become increasingly burdened with the knowledge that there are many around me who have not known, and probably will not know, the virtue and satisfaction of work as I have known it. Many of my students are third generation Welfare recipients. Their grandparents and parents have not worked, and–in truth–many of them will not work either. Others may look upon their lives as nothing more than subsistence: an inferior dwelling, a vehicle on life-support, and no real prospects. Still, many have televisions, cell phones, internet, and enough food to eat.

When a high school student of mine blew off a full-ride scholarship to a welding program at the local community college, I asked him what he planned to do after graduation. To which he responded, “Party with my friends.” Another female student answered the same question with, “I don’t really know. Probably sit at home and watch television with my mom.”

In increasing moments of clarity, I began to realize that, as I was pulling out all of the educational/motivational stops I had to prompt my students to work at reading, writing, and thinking, I was little more than an alien in a land that I no longer recognized. These students had no role models who had worked or aspired to work. Why would they work at something that did not at least produce a tangible, and preferably financial, reward? Why would they aspire to something different and more than their parents, aunts and uncles, grandparents and friends? Why would they work?

They regularly asked me to give: extensions on deadlines, passes on assignments they had missed, higher grades to prevent their failure. I am quite certain that most expected me to give my time, my efforts, and my compassion to meet their requests. This is what teachers do. This is what “nice” people do for those who are in need. This is the way the world works for them.

I grieve for these students and their families. And what about my students’ children and their children? Will the legacy of entitlement persist? Will the virtue of work be lost on whole generations?

I concede (as I did above) that there are clearly times and circumstances during which those of us who can and will work must do so for the sake of others who cannot. I am painfully aware that there are those who may be willing to work but who literally cannot afford to, that there are those who need a temporary “leg up” to move ahead independently, and that there are those who simply cannot work because of disabilities and injuries. These individuals are entitled to our help: financial, emotional, and spiritual.

And I admit that it was often much easier for me to simply give some students what they wanted than it was to hold them accountable for what they had actually earned. I could extend a deadline, raise a grade, and send them on their way. As they walked away, I might even feel good, knowing that I had helped a student in need. But had I–really? Or was I perpetuating their expectations that well-meaning others, like me, would give regardless of the circumstances? These were students who could work at reading, writing, and thinking but who simply chose not to do so. In the education world, we often classify students as “the cannots” and the will nots.” The students to whom I was giving were “the will nots.” In the face of work, they stood their ground and proclaimed, “I will not.”

At the heart of this issue is a spiritual void. Educators cannot teach it away, social workers and government institutions cannot program it away, and lawmakers cannot legislate it away. People of faith must engage in honest dialogue about what constitutes real “help” for those who have chosen not to work. This dialogue will certainly require discernment, openness, and compassion. But it will also challenge some of the prevailing attitudes and practices that have often become easy fixes for a real and growing problem. More money is not always the answer for all people and their particular circumstances. This, I realize, is not a politically correct admission; still, it is an honest one that people of faith should embrace for all the right reasons.

If we have been blessed by the virtue of work, we should want others to be blessed similarly–even those who may refuse this blessing. For their refusals may be made in ignorance and from the security of what they have known and experienced. In short, how would they truly know what they are missing if they have never known it? How would their children and grandchildren?

All individuals–working or not–are entitled to our understanding, our compassion and genuine interest. And they are entitled to our help. Certainly, I do not have as many answers as I have questions. The questions that persist and keep me up at night continue to be these: What does it really mean to help? And does help look the same for all?

It is my prayer that those of us who know the virtue of work and its power to bless individuals with genuine satisfaction and self-worth will lead the dialogue in our churches and communities. These conversations will be neither easy nor conclusive, but they will be a necessary beginning.