I find my greatest happiness in thinking of those days in

The words of Charles M. Schwab, “I find my greatest happiness in thinking of those days in Homestead when I labored to bring a thing to perfection entirely by myself. In the evenings, I would go into the hills and look down on my work, and I knew that it was good, and my heart was elated,” are a hymn to the eternal spirit of creation, labor, and pride in one’s work. In these lines, the great industrialist speaks not of wealth, nor power, nor fame, but of that deep and sacred joy known only to those who have built something with their own hands and their own hearts. It is the happiness of craftsmanship, of creation born from struggle, and of quiet reflection upon honest effort. Schwab’s words carry the wisdom of ages: that true satisfaction does not come from possession, but from purpose; not from applause, but from mastery.

To understand these words, one must recall who Charles M. Schwab was—not merely a titan of industry, but a man who rose from humble beginnings. Born to a poor family in Pennsylvania, he began as a young laborer in the steel mills of Homestead, working under the scorching heat of furnaces and the unrelenting rhythm of machinery. Yet within him burned the fire of ambition—not greed, but a thirst for excellence. He rose not by inheritance, but by effort and vision, ultimately becoming one of the foremost leaders of the steel industry. When he spoke of those early days in Homestead, he was not reminiscing about hardship with bitterness, but with gratitude. For it was in those trials that he found the deepest form of happiness—the joy of creating perfection through one’s own labor, of shaping both steel and self in the same furnace of will.

There is something profoundly spiritual in this reflection. Schwab’s words echo the creation story itself: when the Creator beheld His work and declared it good. For every man who works with sincerity becomes a co-creator with the divine—fashioning order from chaos, form from formlessness. To labor well is to participate in the act of creation, to draw forth beauty from matter, and meaning from effort. And when the day’s work is done, to look upon what one has made and say, “It is good,” is not pride—it is gratitude. It is the joy of knowing that one’s strength, time, and spirit were not wasted in vanity, but transformed into something that will endure beyond the self.

In the story of civilization, this truth has been the foundation of all progress. Consider Michelangelo, who lay on his back for years beneath the vault of the Sistine Chapel, painting the ceiling with aching limbs and weary eyes. When at last he descended and looked upon his finished work, he must have felt, as Schwab did, that deep elation born not of praise, but of perseverance. Or consider the blacksmith in an ancient village, who forges a blade by hand and watches it gleam in the firelight. Though his work may never be seen by kings, he knows in his heart that it is strong, that it will serve well, and that it bears his soul within it. Such is the timeless joy of craft—the quiet exaltation of one who has poured his being into what he makes.

Yet Schwab’s reflection holds another wisdom—the idea of solitude in creation. “I labored to bring a thing to perfection entirely by myself,” he said. In an age where collaboration and machinery had already begun to replace the individual artisan, Schwab looked back longingly on the purity of working alone. There is a sacredness in solitude, for it strips away distraction and reveals the soul’s dialogue with its own creation. In those quiet evenings when he climbed the hills of Homestead to gaze upon his work, he was not merely observing his labor—he was communing with it. The hills became his temple, the steel his testament, and his joy, a form of worship.

From these words we may glean a lesson that speaks to all ages: that happiness is not found in ease, but in effort; not in consumption, but in creation. The man who labors with sincerity—whether he builds empires, crafts poems, tends gardens, or raises children—knows a kind of joy that cannot be purchased or given. It is the joy of having given shape to something good, of seeing the fruits of one’s discipline and devotion. In such work, the spirit of man finds its noblest expression, for it unites body, mind, and soul in a single act of purpose.

So, my listener, take this wisdom to heart. Whatever your work may be, do it not for reward, but for the love of excellence. Strive to bring your task to perfection, even if no eyes but your own will see it. And when the day is done, take a moment—like Charles M. Schwab did—to step back and behold your labor. Look upon it with humility and joy, and say to yourself, “It is good.” For in that quiet moment of satisfaction lies the truest form of happiness—the peace that comes not from what you have gained, but from what you have become through the work of your own hands.

In the end, Schwab’s words remind us that the world is shaped not only by those who dream, but by those who build; not only by those who plan, but by those who persevere. The hills of Homestead, the Sistine ceiling, the fields of the farmer, the song of the poet—all bear witness to this truth: that labor done with love transforms toil into triumph. And when a man can look upon his work and see goodness in it, then his heart, like Schwab’s, shall indeed be elated—for he has glimpsed the divine joy of creation itself.