I remember the day we made the choice. Wood burning or gas.  “You really should go with gas,” a friend counseled us. “You don’t want to be cutting wood for the rest of your life.”

I thought about it for a hot second, and then told my dad, who was designing our new home, “We want a fireplace. We’re going with wood.”

Of course wood. I’d grown up with a wood-burning stove. Our family cut wood my whole life.

When we built our house over a decade ago, we wanted a fireplace, not a stove. This was a problem in California where the air you breathe is regulated. We ended up with a stove inside of a fireplace, completely enclosed to save our lives, since fireplaces can kill you in California. That’s what the California law makers say, wood smoke harms people, but marijuana smoke is okay now. Go figure.

So every winter we cut wood. Up in the hills above the fog where oaks and pines grow side by side. God’s country. I sigh in pleasure when we arrive here. All meadows and trees and cattle on a thousand hills. We are the only people here. With our chainsaws.

We have chosen wood and it’s a life choice. A thing we do year after year. I have watched my mom’s hair turn gray in these hills. My daddy has mellowed with age as we cut wood.

Our first set of children have grown up. Our second set are halfway there. “Why do they call this place Sugarloaf?” One of the boys ask when we arrive in the hills where we cut wood. “Cause it’s so sweet,” I say.

“Opa calls it Sugarloaf because that mountain over there looks like a loaf,” fourteen-year-old John says in his man voice. I’m still not used to this man voice and I turn my head quick trying to catch it coming out of his mouth. Is that really our little ginger boy speaking like a grownup?

I savor this time with Oma and Opa and our children. Three generations gathering our wood. I know time is passing. Lacy’s boyfriend brings his own chainsaw. His own truck. Lacy’s hair is in braids. She still looks twelve years old. But I am not fooled. Jake has a stove and a house. Lacy loves him and happily carries wood to his truck and ours. A new generation is rising.

All those years ago when we chose wood to heat our house, we chose family wood cutting days. Teaching our children how to work is important to us. We wanted to raise our kids a certain way. How to heat our house didn’t seem like a significant choice twelve years ago, but it was.

So many of our choices hold more significance than we know. May we all choose wisely.