By Karen L. Freeman
The wooden porch swing hanging in my living room surprises visitors. In my unexpected, garden-like sanctuary, vine-covered chains descend from the ceiling, wrapping the swing in an embrace. Lazy clusters of purple lilacs fall from above the bay window. Wandering ivy explores a birdbath and trellis. Tumbling fountain waters serenade the soul. This place was my refuge, my safe haven... until the night the tall police officer and the professionally dressed lady arrived at my door. I knew what they were going to tell me, although I prayed I was wrong. Our sixteen-year-old son C.J. was late coming home. My voicemail messages to him were unanswered. When the woman asked my husband Don and me to sit down, we went straight to the swing. Seconds later she spoke those words. "C.J. died tonight."
The wooden porch swing hanging in my living room surprises visitors. In my unexpected, garden-like sanctuary, vine-covered chains descend from the ceiling, wrapping the swing in an embrace. Lazy clusters of purple lilacs fall from above the bay window. Wandering ivy explores a birdbath and trellis. Tumbling fountain waters serenade the soul. This place was my refuge, my safe haven... until the night the tall police officer and the professionally dressed lady arrived at my door. I knew what they were going to tell me, although I prayed I was wrong. Our sixteen-year-old son C.J. was late coming home. My voicemail messages to him were unanswered. When the woman asked my husband Don and me to sit down, we went straight to the swing. Seconds later she spoke those words. "C.J. died tonight."
Many insensible weeks passed as March turned into April and April into May. It was impossible to reclaim my garden room. Hellish memories echoed from there now. More than once during those weeks, I stood in the kitchen doorway that framed a view of my swing and the horrific scene replayed for what seemed the billionth time: the swing... my husband... the lady kneeling in front of me... my face buried in my husband's chest... his arms around me tight... my eyes clenched shut... my hands over my ears... shouts of "No! No! NO!" followed by my own unearthly sobs. Now I hated that swing.
One early May morning I was home alone and once again seized by grief. God, my Father, listened as I lashed out and hurled angry words of confusion at Him. I cried and yelled, ultimately ending up in the middle of the garden room. Completely spent, I plopped down on my swing. That swing. The swing I wanted to be at peace with again.
I asked God, "Why? Why?"
I knew there would never be an answer to satisfy me. Still, my very soul cried out, "I need to know he's okay, God. Please, please, show me that he's okay." The words poured from my mouth, but even more so from my spirit.
At some point, out of sheer exhaustion, I stopped and waited for an answer. I gently swayed back and forth, to and fro to the creaking rhythm of the chain.
Oblivious to time, I sat for quite a while, until I finally accepted the fact that God wasn't going to drop a postcard from the sky. I got up, cleaned myself up, and drove to my ex-husband's, C.J.'s dad, house to deliver some photographs. Steve was remarried to a wonderful woman named Kathy, and they had a boy, "little" Steven, who was almost four years old.
As I approached their house, Kathy drove toward me. We stopped and rolled our windows down to talk. I passed the manila envelope of photographs to her.
"Oh, Karen, I have to tell you something," she said. "Little Steven wanted me to call you yesterday. He had a dream. C.J. told him to tell you that he's okay."
My mouth dropped open.
"Steven was really persistent. C.J. told him it was really important that he tell you that." My jaw was still hanging slack. Little Steven was much too young to make up such a story. I told Kathy about my morning, begging God to let me know C.J. was okay. This time, her jaw fell open.
From that day forward the swing became a part of my healing, not hurting, and in time, it grew to be a peaceful place for me once more, even joyful at times.
I've come to accept that as long as I'm here on this earth, I won't have all the answers I yearn for surrounding the death of my son. But I do know that God heard my cry from the swing that day and mercifully answered my prayer.
One early May morning I was home alone and once again seized by grief. God, my Father, listened as I lashed out and hurled angry words of confusion at Him. I cried and yelled, ultimately ending up in the middle of the garden room. Completely spent, I plopped down on my swing. That swing. The swing I wanted to be at peace with again.
I asked God, "Why? Why?"
I knew there would never be an answer to satisfy me. Still, my very soul cried out, "I need to know he's okay, God. Please, please, show me that he's okay." The words poured from my mouth, but even more so from my spirit.
At some point, out of sheer exhaustion, I stopped and waited for an answer. I gently swayed back and forth, to and fro to the creaking rhythm of the chain.
Oblivious to time, I sat for quite a while, until I finally accepted the fact that God wasn't going to drop a postcard from the sky. I got up, cleaned myself up, and drove to my ex-husband's, C.J.'s dad, house to deliver some photographs. Steve was remarried to a wonderful woman named Kathy, and they had a boy, "little" Steven, who was almost four years old.
As I approached their house, Kathy drove toward me. We stopped and rolled our windows down to talk. I passed the manila envelope of photographs to her.
"Oh, Karen, I have to tell you something," she said. "Little Steven wanted me to call you yesterday. He had a dream. C.J. told him to tell you that he's okay."
My mouth dropped open.
"Steven was really persistent. C.J. told him it was really important that he tell you that." My jaw was still hanging slack. Little Steven was much too young to make up such a story. I told Kathy about my morning, begging God to let me know C.J. was okay. This time, her jaw fell open.
From that day forward the swing became a part of my healing, not hurting, and in time, it grew to be a peaceful place for me once more, even joyful at times.
I've come to accept that as long as I'm here on this earth, I won't have all the answers I yearn for surrounding the death of my son. But I do know that God heard my cry from the swing that day and mercifully answered my prayer.
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