An interesting thing about living in one place for forty-eight years is that you get to observe some patterns. For instance, last week I had to cut down a pine tree that I had once planted.

Years ago, we were given nine small pine trees. I planted them in a group in the northwest corner of our lot to create a natural wooded area in what once was barren pastureland. Our subdivision was carved out of an old dairy farm, and ours was one of the last remaining lots. We’ve planted many trees and shrubs, most of which have thrived. But since we wanted fast-growing things to populate the yard, fast growth often means shorter life.

So this forty-foot plus pine I cut down last Tuesday went through its whole life-cycle during our time here. When it was just a small tree, I dug a large hole in the rich soil, placed the root ball just so, watered it in, and backfilled the soil firmly about the roots. At once the tree began to suck up the water and minerals and nutrients from the ground. It absorbed the sun’s energy, drawing the carbon dioxide from the air and releasing life-giving oxygen back into the atmosphere. It grew tall and straight, providing shelter for birds and other critters. It shielded us from the prevailing winds, and made a nice privacy screen.

When it became obvious that it was time to fell the tree, I spent a bit of time contemplating how and where it might fall. It seemed to lean a little to the west, which would mean its fall would be impeded by the adjacent pines. So I tied a rope up high around the trunk and attached the other end to my riding lawn mower, putting some tension on the line toward the east. I cut a deep notch on the east side of the trunk, then started the back cut on the west. Suddenly, I could feel the tree settle in a westward direction, trapping my chainsaw in the cut. I ran to the lawn mower, started it and drove forward slowly until the tree started moving in an eastward direction. It fell straight and true, exactly where I wanted it.

I lopped off all the branches, cut the log into sixteen inch chunks, shredded the brush into mulch, and cut the sticks for kindling. As the mulch decays, it will put the nutrients back into the soil, as will the ashes after we burn the wood in our fire pit. The fire will release carbon dioxide back into the air, where other trees will absorb it during their lifecycles.

It’s a privilege to have lived in this place long enough to observe  this cycle of life, growth, and decay, and to understand just a tiny bit of the wonder of creation. We’ll go to the garden center soon, and find some shrubs to plant in this bare spot. And we’ll enjoy knowing that the pattern will repeat as long as God makes the sun to shine and causes the rains to fall to water the earth.

For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NLT)