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Getting Things Done That You Really Don’t Enjoy

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Life is filled with tasks that, as time goes on, we can feel increasingly annoyed by.
Who loves doing the daily household chores—cooking, washing dishes, sweeping the floor—or the weekly ones—washing clothes, cleaning the bathroom, working in the yard?

As the world keeps spinning and our days begin to pile up, sometimes you just look at these tasks and say, “No, not again.” It might seem self-defeating. You know it’s simply an exclamation in vain, because the work must be done and there’s no one else to do it. When I walk outside, I see the pressure washing that’s required, the shingle that needs fixing, the painting that is needed, the concrete repairs that should be tackled, the bushes that need to be cut—and the list continues.

I climb the stairs into the attic, and waiting for me is more cleaning, straightening, and sorting.


As I walk through the house, the dust bunnies play on the floor like they have the run of the place, the laundry needs folding, the bathroom needs a scrub, and my, how the piles of work seem to be gaining on my height.

My brother recently decided he was done. He has sold his home, and with it go 90 percent of these tasks. He will eventually gain others to replace them, but for now he sees the light at the end of the tunnel.

I, however, am not that brave. I like the consistency of place and everything in its place. Home is where I lay my head at night. It’s where I do life. One day someone else will make this space theirs, but for now—and hopefully, the Lord’s will—it is where I will pass a few more decades.

So, as the generations before me, I must buck up and just do it. Whatever it may be, it’s not as bad as it seems, and though the doldrums of repeated activity may creep into my psyche, I must persevere.
And so must you. These things we do daily seem unimportant in the scheme of things, but for those of you sharing life with someone else—spouse or children—it’s these shared experiences of doing the tasks that sometimes become the basis of memories.

Doing things together is what stands out in my thoughts of growing up. We did so much, but as Mother would say, “Many hands make the burden lighter.” I do miss the many hands. The tasks I was assigned, always trying to get them perfect, then followed by showing them to Mom or Dad—and the praise, or sometimes the lesson, that followed—stuck with me and helped shape the man I am.

That’s one of the things missing today. I tend to find my own lessons, but it’s hard to praise yourself. You can, and I do, yet the feeling of self-satisfaction from a job well done on daily or weekly tasks seems hollow sometimes. The special projects stick a while, but it’s hard to get excited over a well-cleaned toilet.

Perhaps the best encouragement for the effort comes from God’s “attaboy” through His Word: “His lord said unto him, Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.” — Matthew 25:21 (KJV)

So stop fretting the little things. Just do them, move on, and find the tasks that excite and uplift your soul. The sooner these are finished, the more time you can spend doing those.

Read more of Randall’s writing in his books found in our store.

Beneath Leaves: Finding Renewal When Worry Piles High

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There are seasons in life when worries, sorrows, fears, and quiet depressions gather like autumn leaves drifting from the branches. One by one they fall— a health scare, a strained relationship, financial strain, the ache of loneliness, or simply the relentless news of the world—until they form a thick, damp blanket over the ground. The roots that once fed our soul, drawing nourishment from faith, friendship, purpose, and simple joys, lie hidden beneath. In that shadowed place, it becomes hard to see daylight, harder still to believe spring will ever return.

Even the markers of renewal can feel distant or mocking. Easter arrives with its promise of resurrection and families gathering around tables laden with ham, dyed eggs, and laughter. Spring unfurls tender green shoots and birdsong. For many, these are moments of uplift. Yet for others, they add another layer to the pile: the contrast between outward celebration and inward heaviness only presses the leaves down more tightly. The beauty meant to heal can sometimes underscore how far we feel from blooming ourselves.

I wish the remedy were as straightforward as stepping into sunshine and saying, “It’s a beautiful day—grab a rake, clear the debris, and let the flowers push through.” In truth, I’ve tried that approach more times than I can count. A brisk walk, a forced smile, a playlist of upbeat songs—sometimes they shift the mood for an hour or two. But when the weight has settled long enough, the potential beneath begins to wither. The soul’s tender shoots, starved of light and air, curl inward. What was once vibrant growth risks becoming brittle and dry.

In my own lowest seasons, I’ve learned there is no quick sweep of the rake that suffices. Instead, the way forward is to reach deeper—down through the layers, straight to the roots themselves.

For me, those roots are twofold. First, the living Word of God, which has been the steady food of my spirit since I first opened a Bible as a youth. When sadness clouds everything, I don’t always feel like reading, but I do it anyway—sometimes just a single Psalm, or a few verses from Isaiah promising that God gives strength to the weary. I read slowly, letting the words sink in like rain after drought. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Those aren’t abstract platitudes when you’re buried; they become oxygen.

The second root is people—the ones who care about me, and the ones who need care. Isolation feeds the pile; connection scatters it.

I remember one November a few years back when grief over a family loss had me retreating inward for weeks. The leaves felt suffocating. One Saturday, almost on autopilot, I answered a call from a friend who was in the hospital. I thought he might need someone to talk with so I went, to listen and pass the time. We talked for hours—mostly him talking, me listening.

Driving home that night, something shifted. My own sorrow hadn’t vanished, but it occupied less space. In the mirror of his pain, mine looked smaller—not diminished in importance, but placed in perspective. Helping him didn’t erase my burden; it redistributed the weight. I breathed more easily, as though a few leaves had been lifted away.

That pattern has repeated itself since. When worry permeates every moment, threatening to steal my breath, I step toward someone else’s need. A phone call to check on an elderly friend. Volunteering at the food pantry. Listening to an acquaintance who’s struggling. Each small act of reaching out reminds me I’m not alone in the hole—and sometimes, in joining others to dig, I find my own hands pulling me upward.

It’s counter intuitive: when you feel most trapped, the path to freedom often lies in helping set someone else free. The effort required to encourage, to serve, to show up replaces suffocating rumination with purposeful motion. Problems that loomed gigantic shrink when held next to another’s hardship. Kindness becomes the wind that scatters leaves.

Of course, this isn’t a cure-all. Some burdens require professional help—and seeking it is itself an act of courage and connection. Nor does reaching out magically dissolve every worry. But it does lighten the load enough to glimpse daylight again.

So if the pile feels heavy this season, don’t wait for the wind to do the work. Head to the shed—or the hardware store—and pick up that rake. Better yet, grab a shovel too. Start clearing space around you: a conversation, a kind deed, a verse that speaks directly to your heart. Root yourself deeper in God’s promises and in the lives of those around you.

In time, you may notice the first green shoots breaking through. Hope, fragile at first, begins to rise. Kindness takes root. Enthusiasm stirs. The very act of tending others’ gardens revives your own.

Spring always comes. Sometimes we just need to rake away what’s covering it—and in helping others uncover their light, we rediscover ours.

Read more of Randall’s work in Seeing Faith : A Devotional.