A Log Cabin, Really?
Lumber and trees have themed my whole life, from my Granddaddy’s graying barn, the cool air scented with tobacco hanging from the rafters and sweet corn in barrels, to building a dream house, sawdust spicing the air, from the ground up. Living in a log cabin had never even occurred to me, other than a weekly rental with my family one time.
For a handful of years though, I’d sensed the need to be opened to a move, although I felt no compulsion to online or in-person search. Then the old oak tree fell on our house, driving us from our home. To this day, I wonder if I didn’t miss a message from God, so much so that a massive tree was needed to point the way. I am given to be hard-headed at times.
Many houses crossed my path. Many places my wise adult children and I visited. One home featured an international croquet field. That was a deep no. The yard maintenance schedule haunts me to this day. Another one had been constructed of all milled lumber, crafted by the owner. Slatted wood slanted in multiple directions that didn’t quite strike the definition of restful dwelling. Of course, that log cabin kept popping up, despite my heart’s longing for crown molding and smooth drywall.
Giving up the battle, I called my realtor. A look at the farm was overdue. My kids fanned through the front door into the interior, while I lingered outside, studying he acreage of haymow. Beauty vs. machinery, maintenance, drought. Yet, the moment I walked inside and saw with eyes and heart, I called this place home, acreage and all.
Cracks razor across thick logs. Empty peg holes pierce weathered wood. Cut marks define where hatchets once hung. My curated art looks perfect against the logs. In an oxymoron of furniture making, some have said revenge, the very tree that felled the dream house now makes up a family-sized dining table, barn door and desk in the cabin. Somehow, all the wood works and more than that, delights and welcomes.
Our hearts scout for places to settle. Nothing new there, although we try with lesser gods like shopping, work and substances, to name a few. Things that turn their backs on us and become our taskmasters destroying any concept of home.
The Bible tells of a few of Jesus’ favorite places to visit, yet he was never a property owner. Since the age of twelve, he made his place clear. His home was His Father’s house, one not accessed with a milled key from the hardware store. No, one accessed only by the heart.
To this day, Jesus invites us into his home. “Come and you will see.”
Whenever the Lord shows us something, it’s always an opportunity to choose the greater way. When we follow him, life changes, even when we thought we didn’t want it. So yes, my domain for this life--until death or assisted living do I part--is a 200-year old log cabin. But my future-- life everlasting--has been built on two wood logs and three nails. And the most important real estate of all called the empty tomb.
The words still stand. Come and see.
-Renee Leonard Kennedy
