Warmth from the sun on the top of my head, as my hair flies freely behind then before me. Being pushed on a swing, high into the air by my father, I know, young as I am, how amazingly free Heaven must be.
Climbing onto the swing, anticipating what is to come even now brings a calming joy to my mind and heart. As he would pull the swing toward him, me moving backwards, blindly, trustingly, through space, I felt a safeness that was almost irrational. Trust that the hands would be steady and true, the arms strong enough to outlast my fascination with the combination of cadence, gravity and levity. Even when I learned to pump, and could have control over the duration of my adventure, I still preferred--or imagined--the experience of being pushed.
The first time I experienced bliss was on a common playground, flying through the air. When I see a swing, I remember, with every fiber of my being, that bliss, that joy, that time with my father. There are times when I feel that connection to my Father; times when I'm free falling in faith. Now is not one of those times. But I won't let go. The very fact that I can remember and recall, and feel the memory of that bliss means that it is not out of reach.
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