Prologue
Our 72 acre farm is surrounded by fence, lots of it old barbwire that was fastened to white oak posts 50+ years ago. Most of the wooden posts have split or leaned, and the wires have drooped right to the ground.
It’s time to build new fence, but first we’ve got to clear the 40-foot trees and hundreds of bushes that have grown into a tangle around the very rusted wires.
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The Easter service was over and Dave and I were driving back to the farm. It wasn’t even noon, a full afternoon loomed ahead of us, and I wasn’t happy. Not at all.
Here it was Easter Sunday, and it would be just the two of us. Our grown kids and their families were all over the country. A couple were vacationing in Mexico, some were in on the East Coast, and others were out West. I, who grew up with at least 20 relatives at the table for every family event, would be without kids and grandkids for Easter. I was sad, and I was really upset. How could I enjoy Easter without the sound of family conversation, and jokes at the dinnertable. Grrr.
Dave said, “I’m going to finish brushing out a section of the south fence and I could use your help.”
“What?!” I thought to myself. It’s Easter Sunday, and the last thing I want to do is work on the fence. I was, to put it lightly, in a funk.
I knocked about the kitchen for about five minutes and decided I’d better get outside and do something, anything. My kids weren’t going to materialize and, anyway, it was too early to start dinner.
I checked to make sure I had the tools I needed, climbed into the Ranger, and made the really short drive to the south fence. Dave followed in the skid steer, his speed seriously slowed by the brush hog attachment at the front of the vehicle. [A brush hog is a powerful implement that can cut through heavy brush and saplings like a hot knife through butter.]
Dave and I peered down the old fence line and saw the job ahead of us. A wall of trees, saplings, brush, and weeds told us where the fence line stretched to the brook. Thing was, we couldn’t see the posts and wires because they’d been swallowed by decades of vegetation.
While Dave manned the chainsaw and the brush saw (another wickedly effective tool), I began to work the wire. At Dave’s suggestion, I focused on just one wire at a time, using fence tools to pry rusted support staples out of the wood, and bend clip supports away from the steel posts.
Barbwire
Once a length was free, I began to coil it. Formed by a pair of twined wires punctuated by a knot of rigid barbs every few inches. the barbwire was stiff and stubborn. It snagged at my jeans, and poked through my leather gloves. It grabbed at my work shirt and scratched my wrists. If I didn’t hang on tight, the loops would spring apart and lash at arm and face and eyes.
Working slowly and carefully, I eventually coaxed several yards into layered circles of rust and thorn.
I couldn’t help but remember the Easter sermon, and the crown of thorns that had been nailed into Jesus’ head before he was beaten, flailed and crucified.
Jesus had no leather gloves to protect his hands. He had no tough denim to protect his legs, or heavy shirt to cushion his back. He suffered it all, and died for us. And on the third day, he vanquished pain and death by rising again.
He did this so that we might be saved. And He did it voluntarily!!
The sun lowered in the sky. Our work was done for the day. Bound coils of barb wire rested on the ground. The sagging fence is coming down wire by wire. My leather gloves were lots worse for the wear, and my jeans frayed a bit, but no matter. It was time to get dinner started. 
As I climbed into the Ranger, I noticed a low tire. I’ll need to get that fixed.
Making the short hop back to the house, my mind slipped to everyday concerns, those tasks that need attention again and again: the meals, shopping, laundry, the phone calls.
It’s Easter Sunday. It’ll be just Dave and me, and that’s a gift. We worked on the fence together and now we’d have brisket for dinner, and maybe watch a movie. Ordinary activities.
We’ll relax in these little things because He took care of the big thing – our salvation – once and for all – on that first Easter morning.