It’s been several weeks since I posted here. After what felt like a slow spring, summer arrived like a wrecking ball.
Between volleyball, T-ball, and flag football, our evenings disappeared almost overnight. Volleyball wrapped up a few weeks ago, and T-ball finished this evening. Suddenly, I have three evenings back each week.
Though, if I’m honest, the property has already volunteered to fill every one of them. There is no shortage of projects waiting for us.
One of the biggest happened this week.
Removing What Could Harm Us
When we first bought this property, one thing immediately caught my attention.
Towering over the house stood several massive ponderosa pines. Beautiful trees—but beautiful doesn’t always mean wise.
The tallest measured nearly 115 feet and stood only about fifteen feet from our home. The very first day we walked the property, I remember telling Luke, “Some of these trees have to go.”
Like so many things on a homestead, however, the urgent gave way to the important.
First came the chicken coop. Then the chicken tractor. Then the garden. The orchard. The future shop site. Moving outbuildings. More than thirty additional pines had to be cleared elsewhere on the property.
Life happened. Six months later, we finally hired a local tree service to remove the thirteen trees surrounding the house.
Watching the Professionals
The kids and I watched from a safe distance as the crew worked. I learned quickly that tree felling isn’t simply cutting until gravity takes over. Every tree requires careful observation.
They study its natural lean. They calculate the weight. They cut a precise notch.
Then they make the final cut and trust that everything they’ve prepared will guide the tree exactly where it needs to fall.
When they prepared to fell the enormous pine closest to our house, we all paused. The kids and I prayed. “Lord… please don’t let this tree hit our house.”
Seconds later, the tree landed exactly where they intended. Watching it fall made me think about faith. Faith isn’t reckless. It doesn’t ignore wisdom or preparation.
It takes careful, intentional steps while trusting God with the outcome.
“Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.”
— Proverbs 16:3
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What Happens After a Tree Falls
The work isn’t finished once the tree hits the ground. The trunks are still waiting for the logging company to haul them away.
We’ve already spent evenings limbing the trees and stacking the wood for future winters.
And while we’ve lost quite a bit of shade around the house, we’ve gained something far more valuable.
Peace of mind. Removing those trees greatly reduced our wildfire risk. Will I miss the shade during August? Probably. Especially without air conditioning.
But I’d much rather be warm than wonder whether a windstorm—or wildfire—will bring one crashing through our roof.
God Removes Things Too
As I stood looking across the newly opened yard, something struck me. When a towering tree is removed, everything beneath it changes.
Sunlight finally reaches the forest floor. Young plants that have struggled for years suddenly receive what they’ve been missing.
The landscape looks emptier at first. Almost harsher. But it’s actually healthier. I wonder if God sometimes works the same way. Sometimes He removes something we’ve depended on.
A job. A routine. A relationship. A comfort. Something that once provided shade—even security.
At first, the loss feels exposed. Uncomfortable. Maybe even frightening.
But perhaps what feels like loss is actually God making room for new growth.
“Every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”
— John 15:2
Pruning rarely feels pleasant. Neither does cutting down a tree you’ve grown accustomed to seeing every day. Yet both create space for healthier things to flourish.
Looking Back
The yard certainly looks different now. More open. Brighter. Safer.
And in a strange way, I think my heart does too. The work of stewarding a home, a family, or even our own souls often looks like removing what no longer serves God’s purpose.
It’s rarely the exciting work. It isn’t glamorous. But sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is make room for the light.
And that’s all for now.
Be blessed.
