Log-Splitting and Loss

 

Strange how a log-splitter can trigger a fresh realization of loss. But seeing Dad clean up a couple trees that blew down in strong prairie winds this spring didn't look right. That used to be a family job with everyone hauling branches, rolling logs, and putting in many hours and days every fall and early winter on log-splitting.

When we heated the house from the basement wood stove, we borrowed the hefty log splitter from my uncles that attached to a tractor. One of us would sit in the cab running the direction of the wedge while watching carefully for hand signals and making instant safety decisions if we saw any knots that looked as if they would cause problems for the two hoisting logs outside. Heavy, satisfying work!

Then came the winters where one of us girls would split smaller logs in the shed while the other two did sheep chores. Over and over, we lifted and threw a weight against the wedge set on top of a log. Thankfully the weight slid along a vertical rod to keep everything safe and perfectly aimed.

And no matter the method of splitting, there were always 5-gallon buckets to fill with wood and haul to the basement.

All this kind of work came to an end for me when chronic pain set in 15 years ago.

If I let myself think too much, more than my body hurts. I can feel guilty for being unable to do the heavy outdoor work that used to be my specialty - especially because we don't want Dad overdoing it since his heart attack. I can fret watching Mom overwork in the perennial gardens. I can be tempted to mow the lawn (which was my job for years), though I know the zero-turn mower would mess up my brain even worse than a very difficult drive last week. It can feel like our family is drowning in weakness and pain with three in the house battling daily chronic illness.

OR...

I can choose to replace these discouraging facts with Truth.

As Dad is playing on his trumpet as I type:

Be still my soul!
the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change He faithful will remain.
Be still my soul!
thy best, thy heav'nly Friend
Thro' thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

• K.A. von Schlegel, 1752