Guideposts – August 2019

24 GUIDEPOSTS (^) | August 2019
we’d unpacked. Whatever adventure
they tackled on it became my own: pi-
rates who hauled loot to the top plat-
form with a bucket and rope. Cowboys
wielding wooden rifles. We’d draped
bedsheets over the tower to make a
canopy tent and scooped sand in the
box below. A baby swing was hung
from the center bar when two more
sons were born. Then came the big-
boy swings and a trapeze. Next, a set
of rings. I’d spent hours behind those
swings, pushing babes and toddlers
and boys while we sang made-up songs
and the sun browned their skin and
turned their hair a summer white.
I missed those times as my boys
grew. No more afternoons playing or
reading books together in the tower.
Instead we spent hours in the family
van, running here and there from one
activity to the next. There was no way
that the future could be as sweet as the
past, was there?
T
he boys stacked the time-
worn wood. I couldn’t watch  any-
more. I went back to the house.
Maybe a run would help me sort
through my emotions.
My oldest son, Logan, stood on the
porch. He was home for a rare week-
end visit from law school. “I’m leaving
for a run too,” he said. “Want to go to-
gether?”
I nodded. A few minutes later, we ran
behind our house. City blocks gave way
to country roads and farmland.
“The swing set,” Logan said. “It’s
hard for you, right?”
“It is.” Logan knew how I resisted
change. I’d kick and scream to keep
things the same if it would make a dif-
ference. I’d asked God, over and over,
to help me live with my hands open, to
release the memories I clung to so I’d
be ready for what he planned next. But
it didn’t take long for fear to creep in
again. To make me feel as if the ground
were crumbling from under me.
“You’re really good at this, Mom.
Raising boys,” Logan said. I looked at
my grown son. Slim and strong. Kind
to slow his pace to mine. Kind to know
my struggle and to meet me where I
was emotionally.
“Thanks, Logan,” I said. I wanted my
boys to grow into the people the Lord
intended them to be. Why couldn’t I
just roll with things?
Because taking down the swing set
was more than dismantling ropes and
wood. The empty space in the yard
made room for a question: After the
wild beauty of raising kids, could life
ever hold the same luster?
Our yellow Lab barked in greeting
when he saw Logan and me coming
down the hill toward home. I could
see, from this vantage point, that the
activity in the yard continued. “I think
I’ll run down the block and go in the
front door,” I said. I could look the oth-
er way as I ran past the wrought-iron
fence that had once held my children
safe, away from the road. But as I came
closer, my two youngest yelled for me.
“Mom! Look! Come see!”
That was the last thing I wanted
to do. I imagined the dirt patches in
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