I had stopped by the church to pick up a music and a mic stand for the wedding at which I would be officiating in the evening. As I was loading the stuff into the trunk, our son Nate came out the door. He was filthy and looked tired from being up at Gram's cutting wood all day, and I was glad to see him.
Cutting firewood is pretty common around here; lots of guys do it, but that doesn't make it any less dangerous. Linda's maternal grandfather was killed on his thirtieth birthday in a logging accident. Chain saws are dangerous, and hung up trees aren't called "widowmakers" for nothing. It's best to not cut alone, but more often than not, that's the way it's done. I was glad he had a productive and safe day. I often think about fathers who don't get to see their sons come home. The parents whose son is killed in action overseas, the parents whose child is victim of street violence or drug addiction and have to identify the body, the parents whose child simply doesn't acknowledge them anymore. My son came home from a day in the woods, and will lead worship tomorrow as we gather in the park. It's a simple thing, but nothing to be taken for granted. I take it for grace, and am grateful for it.
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