We have to stop meeting like this. The kids at school might find out. And so I gave into peer pressure. My mother had rocked me long past her ability to carry me to my bed. The comfort in that motion, and being held like that, cradled. . .well, it’s sheer magnificence.
I spent hours alone on my grandmother’s porch swing, entertaining myself with motion. The higher the better. I even learned to lay down and push it with my feet. That swing was my friend.
My cousins and I spent chunks of our days rocking on my Aunt Gay’s and Uncle Bill’s front porch. We rocked so hard and so fast, we would almost rock ourselves right off the porch. We would have to stop and pull the rocker back in place to begin again. We claimed our youth on that front porch.
I’ve invited conversation on swings and rocking chairs, that carried the motion beyond it’s limit, into God’s sacred space.
My sister Lu and I have walked the beach to find a swing put there, alone, in the sand. If we timed it right we would swing over the in-coming tide and our bare feet tickled by the salt water ruffles.
The search was extensive. I rocked in every rocking chair and glider in the city, endless practice for love to be set in this motion. Baby after baby glided into their days, nights, feedings, first books. Every glide went from moment to mile in close embrace. Miles and miles upon miles of motion into momentous love.
A nursery glider was brought home to ease transitions for our little gifts of hope. It never made it to the nursery. It stayed mommy bedside. Swaddled with love, we placed them in to move those pink bundles in rhythm with the pulse of their needs. My love kept a tired hand resting on the rail, to push at slight stirrings or grunts to move each little baby girl into the comfort of a gentle sway of dream washed slumber.
Little legs learned to pump back and forth to look into the sky and how I wanted them to fly. I pushed their little bottoms long after they needed the push, I could inch them higher with my push and the thrill of their precious smiles kept me pushing past the evening light.
The tree, it held on it’s best limb, a tree swing, a rounded wooden seat. The rope had to be replaced several times. Parties and the kids lined up in a long wait to fly through the air on the life of this tree limb. They flew so high, I might turn my head, in fear of a fall. I remember the day my husband talked me into a swing, and I agreed if it was low. I was soon begging for higher and I cherished every child’s soaked moment of delight. The day that tree had to come down, was a sad day in our family life of memories.
Motion is the thing from which life is made. Take every walk, ride, or swing and claim the rhythm as your own. God set the world in motion, let His Hand turn turn majestic into your world.
Give thanks for motion.