The smallest choices show what’s inside your heart.
My dad always said, “The way you do anything is the way you do everything.”
When I was young, I didn’t know what to do with that. It sounded like the kind of thing a dad says to make sure you put his tools back where they belong. Or that you hustle all the way to first base even though the ball’s already in the glove. Or cut the lights out before you shut the door.
Over time, I started to understand he wasn’t talking about being perfect. He was talking about being steady. About doing quiet work, the behind-the-scenes, no-thanks-needed, no-shortcut kind of work. Your work says more about you than you ever could with words.
I grew up in his shadow—not the kind you hide in, but the kind that stretches out ahead of you like a path. I watched how he worked. How he shook hands. He never gave a speech about values or mission statements. He just lived it.
If someone called, he answered. If something broke, he fixed it. If a neighbor needed help, he was headed to his truck before they finished asking.
He always says, “We’re gonna love on people, take care of them, and fix air conditioners along the way.” And it’s not just a line. It’s the truth.
For a long time, I thought that’s just what men did. That everybody cared that much. Only later did I learn how rare it was to find someone who still believed that how you do something matters just as much as what you’re doing.
And somewhere along the way, that got in my bones too.
There’s something sacred about good work. Not the loud kind. Not the kind that brags about itself or asks for applause. But the kind that hums in the background and makes life a little easier for someone else. The kind that says: “I was here. I cared.”
That’s the work I saw growing up. That’s the work I still believe in.
It’s not about having the fanciest tools or a flashy brand name on the side of a van. It’s about presence. It’s about slowing down long enough to pay attention and do the job like it matters—because it does.
Some of the best lessons don’t come in a lecture. They come in the way a man wipes his boots every time before walking into someone’s kitchen. In the way he admits when he’s wrong. In the way he calls just to check on you.
I’ve learned that the smallest things—like where you park your truck, how you clean up after yourself, how you listen when someone’s frustrated—those are the things that last longer than any system we ever installed.
They’re not flashy. But they’re what people remember.
In our line of work, trust isn’t handed to you. It’s earned, little by little. Not just with tools, but with time. And once you’ve got it, you guard it like a family name.
These days, I catch myself saying the same things I once rolled my eyes at. Stuff like, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” Or, “Treat every house like your mama lives there.” I smile when I hear it come out of my mouth, because I know exactly where it came from.
What my dad built wasn’t just a business. It was a way of walking through the world. A way of paying attention. A way of being.
And if I can pass even a little of that on to my crew, my kids, or the folks we serve, then I’ll know I’ve done something worth a little space in this world.
In the end, it’s not just about the work, it’s about the love behind it.
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Jerod Smith
West Monroe, LA