You know, folks, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the working man—the kind of person who wakes up before the sun, pours a cup of weak coffee, and heads out to shape the world with calloused hands and weary bones. And you know, I think if there’s one thing that cuts through the noise of this crazy, chaotic existence, it’s that God, the big guy upstairs, has a special place in His heart for the working man.

See, it’s not about the flashy titles or the corner offices. It’s not about the stock portfolios, the Instagram likes, or the hustle culture. God’s love isn’t measured in fancy metrics or how much you’ve got in the bank. It’s in the quiet, uncelebrated moments: the farmer who rises with the rooster to tend his fields, the carpenter who sands every board until it’s smooth as a dream, the trucker who rolls down the midnight highway with nothing but a cup of joe and a stubborn sense of duty.

God loves the working man because there’s a kind of poetry in hard work—a rhythm that echoes the creation of the world itself. It’s sweat and toil that turns chaos into order, that turns ideas into something real and tangible. It’s that dirt under your nails that connects you to the earth, to the stuff we’re all made of. You could say the working man is a bit of a co-creator with the divine, a partner in this cosmic dance of making something out of nothing.

And when you think about it, God Himself is the ultimate working man. I mean, He didn’t just snap His fingers and call it a day. Six days He labored, building this vast, intricate universe with His own version of sweat and tears. And on the seventh, He rested—not because He had to, but maybe because He wanted to step back and admire the work of His hands. That’s what a working man does; he takes pride in the job well done, in the effort poured into something bigger than himself.

So if you’re out there, clocking in at dawn and dragging yourself home at dusk, feeling like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, remember this: God sees you. He sees the effort, the grind, the sacrifices. He knows that in every rivet hammered, every road paved, every stitch sewn, there’s a little bit of divine love being worked into the fabric of life. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where His love shines the brightest—not in the grand gestures, but in the small, everyday acts of work that keep this whole crazy world turning.

So keep going, keep working, keep believing. Because in the end, it’s not the kings or the conquerors who hold the heart of God. It’s the working man, doing what he’s done since time began: showing up, getting his hands dirty, and making something beautiful out of the ordinary. And if that ain’t love, well, I don’t know what is.