No Rest for This Beloved
Illustration
Stories
It is in vain that you rise up early
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives sleep to his beloved. (v. 2)
While staying in a motel recently, I was wakened several times during the night by someone sawing wood in the adjoining room. At first I thought the sound was coming from outside. But when I peered out the window over the dumpster there was nothing but a weary raccoon on his way home after working the late shift.
About the third time I woke I realized it was coming through the wall. They may “keep the light on for you” in these cheap motels but they scrimp on insulation. It was world-class snoring, the loudest I ever heard. My careful research via Google, the source of all knowledge, revealed that severe snoring is 60 decibels or more.
“The level of noise that starts to have an effect on sleep is around 40 decibels … when exposed to noise at these levels, it can have a negative effect on all areas of wellbeing.” My “wellbeing” was definitely under assault. But I could think of no response that was practical or legal, or that wouldn’t wake my wife, Jo, who was quietly sleeping just fine.
Breaking into the room next door and smothering a recalcitrant snorer with a pillow is hardly appropriate behavior for an old preacher of the gospel. So I just lay there and let my mind wander as I tried in vain to fall back to sleep. The guy kept snoring and I marveled at how much it sounded like the cartoon cliché of someone sawing logs — big logs, prehistoric-redwood-size logs.
That took me back to memories of childhood on the farm and all the wood Dad cut for our wood stove as well as in later years for the new forced-air furnace in the basement. I was four years old in 1955 when Dad bought a Homelite chainsaw. Before that, he and Grandpa used a two-man crosscut saw to fell big trees. The chainsaw was more than a step up; it was a revolutionary giant step for Sumwalt-kind. How Dad could afford such a marvel of modern technology I don’t know. We were just scraping by on a small, rented farm with two draft horses, seventeen milk cows, a few hogs and a handful of chickens. But Dad was prouder of that saw than Ralphie’s dad was of the ugly leg-shaped lamp in A Christmas Story.
It was shiny-bright-red and loud, and had a strangely pleasing oily aroma. It also had a brush-cutter attachment, with a rotary blade on the end of a three-foot extension bar that Dad used when he hired himself out to do custom work. I think that’s how he paid for the saw; he could lay down a half-acre of brush in no time. Piling it up took much longer for my brother Alan and me.
Okay Dad did most of the brush piling; three-and four-year-olds are not really that much help in the woods. But Dad liked having us along and we enjoyed the spectacle. There’s nothing like the roar of a chainsaw echoing through the woods on a cold winter morning, and the smell of fresh sawdust spreading out over the snow.
It was watching Dad cut down large trees — the 100-year-old monster elms and oaks — that I remember best. He knew just how to saw a notch halfway through the side of the tree in the direction he wanted it to fall. I learned years later, after hearing horror stories of neighbors who had been killed while felling a tree, that the little detail was essential to survival — and more important, in saving the embarrassment of dropping a tree on the neighbor’s fence or our own pickup.
Then Dad would cut toward the notch from the other side until the tree began to lean.
“Get back boys,” Dad would holler as he stepped back a safe distance and yelled “TIMBER!”
It was that high drama of watching an eighty-foot tree falling in slow motion and plopping with a crackling thud against the earth that brought us back to the woods with Dad again and again.
Then my mind wandered to the woodcutting bees the men of our church held in the fall of every year. Our little church in Loyd, Wisconsin, had outdoor toilets, no running water and a large wood furnace. The men would all bring their chainsaws and pickups on a Saturday and saw enough wood to last the church through the winter. They filled the wood-storage room and made a large pile next to the outhouses in the back.
I was just remembering how important that holy work was in building community, and that’s when I finally fell asleep — only to be woken by a gentle nudge a few moments later and Jo exclaiming, “JOHN! You are sawing logs again!”
and go late to rest,
eating the bread of anxious toil;
for he gives sleep to his beloved. (v. 2)
While staying in a motel recently, I was wakened several times during the night by someone sawing wood in the adjoining room. At first I thought the sound was coming from outside. But when I peered out the window over the dumpster there was nothing but a weary raccoon on his way home after working the late shift.
About the third time I woke I realized it was coming through the wall. They may “keep the light on for you” in these cheap motels but they scrimp on insulation. It was world-class snoring, the loudest I ever heard. My careful research via Google, the source of all knowledge, revealed that severe snoring is 60 decibels or more.
“The level of noise that starts to have an effect on sleep is around 40 decibels … when exposed to noise at these levels, it can have a negative effect on all areas of wellbeing.” My “wellbeing” was definitely under assault. But I could think of no response that was practical or legal, or that wouldn’t wake my wife, Jo, who was quietly sleeping just fine.
Breaking into the room next door and smothering a recalcitrant snorer with a pillow is hardly appropriate behavior for an old preacher of the gospel. So I just lay there and let my mind wander as I tried in vain to fall back to sleep. The guy kept snoring and I marveled at how much it sounded like the cartoon cliché of someone sawing logs — big logs, prehistoric-redwood-size logs.
That took me back to memories of childhood on the farm and all the wood Dad cut for our wood stove as well as in later years for the new forced-air furnace in the basement. I was four years old in 1955 when Dad bought a Homelite chainsaw. Before that, he and Grandpa used a two-man crosscut saw to fell big trees. The chainsaw was more than a step up; it was a revolutionary giant step for Sumwalt-kind. How Dad could afford such a marvel of modern technology I don’t know. We were just scraping by on a small, rented farm with two draft horses, seventeen milk cows, a few hogs and a handful of chickens. But Dad was prouder of that saw than Ralphie’s dad was of the ugly leg-shaped lamp in A Christmas Story.
It was shiny-bright-red and loud, and had a strangely pleasing oily aroma. It also had a brush-cutter attachment, with a rotary blade on the end of a three-foot extension bar that Dad used when he hired himself out to do custom work. I think that’s how he paid for the saw; he could lay down a half-acre of brush in no time. Piling it up took much longer for my brother Alan and me.
Okay Dad did most of the brush piling; three-and four-year-olds are not really that much help in the woods. But Dad liked having us along and we enjoyed the spectacle. There’s nothing like the roar of a chainsaw echoing through the woods on a cold winter morning, and the smell of fresh sawdust spreading out over the snow.
It was watching Dad cut down large trees — the 100-year-old monster elms and oaks — that I remember best. He knew just how to saw a notch halfway through the side of the tree in the direction he wanted it to fall. I learned years later, after hearing horror stories of neighbors who had been killed while felling a tree, that the little detail was essential to survival — and more important, in saving the embarrassment of dropping a tree on the neighbor’s fence or our own pickup.
Then Dad would cut toward the notch from the other side until the tree began to lean.
“Get back boys,” Dad would holler as he stepped back a safe distance and yelled “TIMBER!”
It was that high drama of watching an eighty-foot tree falling in slow motion and plopping with a crackling thud against the earth that brought us back to the woods with Dad again and again.
Then my mind wandered to the woodcutting bees the men of our church held in the fall of every year. Our little church in Loyd, Wisconsin, had outdoor toilets, no running water and a large wood furnace. The men would all bring their chainsaws and pickups on a Saturday and saw enough wood to last the church through the winter. They filled the wood-storage room and made a large pile next to the outhouses in the back.
I was just remembering how important that holy work was in building community, and that’s when I finally fell asleep — only to be woken by a gentle nudge a few moments later and Jo exclaiming, “JOHN! You are sawing logs again!”
