The Porch Swing

The Porch Swing







On the back porch there is a swing ……



……..  and sitting in it transforms me back into the past. I am once again a child spending a summer month at my grandparent’s farm in Alabama.

There was a swing on Mema’s porch too, and I spent many hours there. The memories of which are much too precious and personal to write in great detail here. Sometimes the porch swing was a retreat to contemplate a childish transgression. Sometimes I was there to just soak in the simple pleasure of a warm lazy summer day and watch the huge spider in the corner of the eaves (thankfully on the outside of the screen) catch flies in his web.

The swing was sometimes a rocket to the moon, sometimes a boat on the Nile, sometimes a train to Paris, or a hot-air balloon soaring through the clouds. Once it was a basket that left me for the garden fairies to find and rescue me from the hairy goblin that lived under the porch. Often it was a cradle to rock the dolls I played with and hummed lullabies to. And sometimes the swing was a flower-covered prop in a ballet in which my cousin Cindy and I were the stars.

Sometimes it was the place to swing with wild abandon and sing Zippidy Doo Da loudly and off-key I admit, out of sheer happiness. The song would always end with me jumping out of the swing as if it was the grand finale and I was taking a bow while hundreds of adoring fans applauded.

I planned my whole future from that old swing, I cried, I laughed, I sang, I pondered, I imagined and I dreamed.


Now sitting here in the reality of those childhood dreams, I know how wonderfully a loving God has brought my life full circle. Now my own porch swing is a place to remember and reflect on how it has all turned out. I don’t think there is a goblin under this porch; I think he has moved out to live under the ugly fake plastic rock that covers the well pump.

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