Picking up worms

When I was a child, I used to laugh at my dad when he picked up worms.

After the rain falls, the worms come to the surface.  Sometimes they get lost and stuck on the tarmac, where they are killed under the unforgiving sun's rays.

My dad, farmer's son, countryside warden, used to quietly pick up any worms he found after the rain and return them to the soil.  I used to think this was a pointless endeavour, after all, they were only worms.  And who was to say they would return to the soil even if given the chance.

But now, I think I get it.  Respect for this world runs through this man's veins.  It warms his heart, shapes his mind and guides his hand.  He has no moral theory which forces him into picking up worms, he probably doesn't even particularly like worms.  He perhaps has never even really considered why he picks them up, because it as natural as breathing to him.  They are there, in this landscape, and their continuation is part of the flow of the land.  

Pick up worms?  What else could he do?

He certainly never picked them up to try and teach me anything, but I learnt nevertheless.  And now as an adult, I too pick up worms after the rain.