Fearless Faith

The chainsaw hadn’t been touched but once or twice since the Dailey tornado, now several years past. The bar was embarrassingly corroded but was at least more recognizable than the chain that clung to it, securely bound in place by a combination of rust from exposure to moisture and layers of dirt, oil, and grease. This old mechanical beast, moribund, at death’s door in every regard, was too much of a challenge to pass up. Armed with naval jelly, steel wool, spray lubricant, air compressor and a little fortitude, I waded in on the saw just to see if it could be resurrected.

The bar was in surp...