Wood Stoves and Log Cabins

I remember watching dad select the trees. A quick examination led to a prompt felling. After stripping limbs and stacking the cut logs in the truck we hauled them back to the clearing by the creek. My job was to sit on top of the logs during transport to make sure we didn’t lose any along the way. Dad always wanted to build a log cabin and at the time he was not short on land in which to place it, nor determination to construct it. I was a little fella, not much help in the way of cutting or stacking logs, but I was eager to help where I could.

The cabin would sit near the entrance of a big hollow beneath two ridges. A little creek trickled its way through the bottom of the hollow and one bend at a time made its way down to the Harpeth River. It was in the crook of one of those bends that our cabin took form. It was the best place to build it. It would be deep enough into the woods that we were secluded from the world around us, but shallow enough to make for easy comings and goings.

A weekend at a time it began to take shape. First the walls, then the roof, then the finer details. I vividly remember mixing the concrete that would act as the chinking. My bare little hands would scoop it out of the plastic bucket and slap it between the logs, while dad smoothed it with finer precision. It felt cold and gritty, but it sealed the walls of our home in the woods which ensured we felt warm and soothed. It had a dirt floor, no bigger than ten or twelve feet long and maybe eight feet across. The ceiling was fairly low, good for keeping heat close while you slept. It had two windows, one on the side wall and one on the front that would be added later. The door was short and stout, enough so that you had to duck your head when walking through it. The squeak of the metal hinges and thud of the latch closing were of much comfort to me for some reason. Over the years we added a porch, which made for a nice place to watch it rain. There was even a big beech tree right outside where we carved all our intials. Inside the cabin there were two bunk beds that dad built, a small storage locker that housed our cookware, and an old wood stove that once belonged to some of my mothers kin. It was simple and so wonderful.

That cabin truly was my home in the woods. No electricity, no running water (besides the creek out back), and not many worries other than keeping the fire going. This, I realize, is a privilege that not many of my generation will ever get to experience. Some of my best nights of sleep were in that cabin. The cabin door was positioned beautifully. You could lay in bed and watch the orange glow from the fireplace outside invade the door frame from the comfort of your sleeping bag. To this day, I have yet to replicate the peace that I felt while watching the fire outside simmer down to coals while laying on those wooden bunks. Waking up, those same coals would be flaming again, while the blurry shape of dad stoked them back to life.

When dad built my first deer stand, he placed it no more than a hundred yards from the cabin. This way I would be close to camp in the event I got cold and needed to warm up by the stove. There is something mysteriously perfect about a boy being able to sit in his own deer stand, while overlooking the family camp in the woods. So many sweet joys grew in that hollow. The memories of me, dad, and all our family still live in that hollow, despite the land belonging to another family now.

You’d be hard pressed to find a more natural pairing than a wood stove and a log cabin. My heart aches for hickory smoke and that musty damp smell from a dirt floor cabin in the woods. Maybe one day I will wake up in glory, neatly tucked within my own log cabin, eternal in nature. I imagine the logs will not adhere to rot, my stove will always glow warm with the radiance of Christ, and the shingles of my roof will be sealed with the loving care of the Father himself. Heaven won’t be Heaven because of a log cabin, but if Christ sees fit to prepare my place in the crook of a creek back in a hollow then so be it. I'm sure those streets of gold will still be paved back into the woods a good ways.

I reckon the only warmth more comforting than a wood stove in a log cabin is the all encompassing warmth experienced in the love of Jesus. It is sweeter than hickory smoke and a refuge to the weariest of wayward outdoorsmen. Wood stoves and log cabins are of great value and mean much to my soul, but Christ will forever mean more.

I am thankful for my time in our family cabin and that God blessed me with a quiet place to dwell while experiencing his creation. Even if I am to never build another cabin in this life, I know that I am a better man because of the one that I was fortunate to build with my dad.

Lord, thank you for the joy of log cabins, the warmth of wood stoves, and the life that abounds from extended time with you therein.

I love you, Lord.

Amen.