The Front Porch Swing

The Front Porch

There’s nothing special about it at all. Sometimes it squeaks. Sometimes it houses wasps and hornets. Several times It’s even crashed to the porch with me on it! Yet, the old, country swing, with its rusty chains and layers of paint, holds a treasure chest of memories.

It’s where I take my morning coffee, where I sit and listen to the birds, and where Imeditate. It’s where I talk to God, laugh and cry, and reminisce.

But, my fondest memories are swinging with my grandchildren, talking and laughing, and pretending to sour high above the clouds on Mrs. Eagle’s feathered back. Then at night we’d listen to the frogs, and watch fireflies.

My oldest grandchild, Brandon, who was in junior high at the time, wrote me this beautiful poem, On the Front Porch, Swingin’. I thank God for reminding me how important it is to spend time with my grandchildren, and how fast they grow up.

On the Front Porch, Swingin’

As the sky starts dropping liquid beats,

The door, it creaks, and opens to the world.

Grandma’s rejoicing as Grandson’s voicing,

“Let’s go out and listen for a bit,

Before it quits. I hear it dyin’ down,”

The boy, he beckons.

“You’re right, I reckon.”

Cause one of these days Grandson’s gonna be a man,

So she’s gotta cherish moments while she still can.

Taking hold of the boy’s hand,

the two go out together on the front porch, swingin’.

“Dee Dee, can you tell me a story? Dee Dee, will you rub my back?”

And, “Dee Dee can you breathe real easy

while I lay my head on your lap?”

“Brandon, can you hear my heart singin’

In the midst of this thunderstorm show’r?”

Together on the front porch, swingin’.

“Let’s stay for another hour.”

Brandon Staton

 

Author: Sandi Staton

So, I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to describe myself to you, and these are the words jumping up and down in my heart: I'm just a simple human being living in a complicated, messed-up world. I speak my mind. I love hard. My feelings run deep. When push comes to shove, I stand my ground. Sometimes I push back. Sometimes I walk away. I've surfed the crashing waves of life that threatened to destroy me only to make me stronger. I bear the scars of emotional rape, sadness, and depression. I've walked the golden streets of churches and religion only to be disappointed time and time again. And as a result, it's taken me seventy-five years to get where I'm sitting today; a sinner saved by grace through the blood of Jesus Christ. I fell at the cross. I repented of my sins, and Jesus saved and washed me clean. I still fall flat on my face. I still get dirty as a pig in a mudhole. And Jesus still picks me up, dries my tears, forgives me again and again, and continues walking close beside me. No one has ever loved me like that. And no one ever will.

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