As one of the billions who watched the Chilean miners being brought to the surface from a subterranean tomb, I listened as journalists warned of awful physical and mental breakdowns that could occur at any moment. Horrors were afoot, and teams of specialists were on hand, as they would surely be needed.

But one by one, as the men emerged from an ordeal that was feared to drive them mad, the reality proved quite different. There were no panic attacks among the miners. There was no hysteria. Not one heart palpitated into apoplexy, nor were there muscular strictures or bouts of fainting.

In fact, as far as I saw, not one rushed screaming from the rocket that brought him, Jules Verne-fashion, from the black netherworld to what must have seemed a clear blue heaven. Instead, they smiled gently, shook hands with the Chilean president, and embraced their families and rescuers. Some were chewing gum.

The psychological consultants alongside the news teams warn that treacherous days are ahead for these men. They predict an emotional crash. But I don’t know. I’m rather dubious of forecasters when they have so much invested in the future that they promise. The readjustment period predicted to be so difficult doesn’t look to have these men scared. They’re glad to be out of a full-blown hell, but maybe they’ll just go on being glad and leave it at that.

I often wonder if people can resist living Hollywood melodramas if they don’t know that they’re supposed to. And I kind of think these miners will resist it. They are real men, after all.

I’ve known some real men and women in my time, of all walks. I know a woman—Mrs. Louise Nelms of Lewisburg, Tennessee—who all her life got up at four every morning and milked cows, fed them, then fed a barn full of horses to boot, before going to her job and working all day. In the evening, she came back and did the same again. Plus, she cooked breakfast and supper and kept her house spotless. She managed to raise peacocks too, and make teacakes, and be exceptionally kind to children.

She still lives in the house she was born in, and though she lost her husband of half a century, she keeps going. Not long back, she fired a shotgun in the air to ward off a bunch of men who didn’t have any business on her place. Some have told her she needs help to cope, but she sleeps fine.

I have known men—my grandfather for one—who put in six days work—ten hours each—beating out dents on cars with hammers, drenched in grease so that it would take another hour to wash it all off. On the one day of rest they had, they went to church, worked in the garden, and fished from a bank. Fifty years of that, and they didn’t go crazy.

We’re often reminded of the resilience of hard laborers during tragedy. After 9/11, firemen and policemen were seen with a newfound reverence. Of course, soldiers were added to that group not long thereafter.

I won’t think of miners now and not be reminiscent of those Chileans in their Oakley sunglasses; their steeliness and resolution inspires me with a sure, deep warmth. But then, I don’t discount other kinds of labor either. That of the office worker can be grueling in a different way—the things one must endure—the politics, the redundancy, the pressure.

I would never discount the professional’s labor: lawyers who fly about the world with intricate cases and detailed arguments in hopes of convincing hostile people; or doctors, who rise in the middle of the night and cut open another human being, taking lives in their hands while there’s still sleep in their eyes; or teachers, who face murderous children and try to force one true thing into their heads while marking countless pages of illegible, incoherent, untrue things that they’ve learned instead.

The story goes that as a consequence for our disobedience we must toil by the sweat of our brows. But I don’t think that means we were meant for a life of prelapsarian leisure. To be a grown person means to work—and to work for others, in most cases. True, that work is most often not exactly the play we would have it be. There are revolting things to do as part of every job, and they often ride cheek-by-jowl with the pleasant ones.

But that’s what you do, for better or worse, and there are good days. Most are good days, in fact. You don’t get paid all you want, or get all the respect you deserve, but it usually evens out. The saddest are those who don’t have a job at all, or don’t have one to fill anymore—bumping about like windup dolls without a direction to take.

Because you just feel better after a day’s work. If it’s done well and honestly, you have that to speak for yourself. Labor is an indispensible part of our happiness, no matter what we say to the contrary. Mostly, we know we’d be lost without it—that it is in fact the making of us—what helps us keep our wits rather than drives us from them.

It seems the blazon of our purpose is carved into the power of our frames, and into the myriad things we can accomplish. The instructions are written on the box, and the specifications are really quite marvelous.

Ecce Homo: Comes with rigid infrastructure but flexible joints. Surprisingly hardy, despite short expiration date. Supply with water and protein for optimal results and rest between uses. Good for breaking rocks, picking apples, spinning wool, and turning earth. Can build bridges across rivers and spaceships to the stars. May occupy multitudes with laughter, music, awe, and can teach a dog to sit. Feisty, handy, adaptable—does countless things well. Complains some. Sweats.