The Boy on the Swing

A lesson in prayer

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

Back and forth, back and forth. The boy was back at the swing.

I first noticed him early in summer, there in the neighborhood park. Swinging, swinging. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes later, there he would be, swinging, swinging. Even in cold and wind — the weather didn’t seem to matter. Swinging, swinging, back and forth, back and forth.

The boy was always dressed in black and alone, reminding me of my son. Overweight and awkward, with beautiful curly hair. Did he have rosy cheeks behind that blasted mask? Deep, brown eyes, pools of thought and sadness, like my Ben’s?

He was 11 or 12 years old, I’d guess, a little old for a swing. But Ben had still been swinging at that age; I think it was his place of solace — the predictable rhythm of the swing soothing the jagged edges of his life.

I grew fond of the boy on the swing, and I would pray for him when I saw him there. I prayed that God would come and love away his sadness, that the Lord would reveal His care for him when he felt like no one else cared. I prayed that he would recognize that God created him, on purpose, just the way he was; that others thought him odd simply because he saw things differently than they did.

Perhaps he had Asperger’s, like my son thought he might, or was trying to escape a horrible home. Sometimes I heard shouting and curses from the houses up the street when the boy was out on the swing.

As the weeks went by, I felt the Father urging me to do more. Stop by; talk. I resisted. I’m rather an introvert, not good at breaking the ice. And then I resolved to obey.

But he was gone.

Just when I’d mounted the courage to approach him, he was gone. I was concerned. What if he’d been hurt by an angry father or locked at home by a controlling mother? I prayed for that precious boy, but truth be told, I was relieved — relieved of a sense of duty while continuing to pray. And pray I did. I prayed for him every time I saw that empty swing.

And then, one day he was back, swinging, swinging, and I knew my assignment hadn’t changed. I put on my shoes and walked over. When I opened the gate he didn’t look up, but when I got his attention, he stopped. He pulled down his mask, and behind it was a bright, sweet smile. When I said “hi,” he said “hi,” back, and when I told him he reminded me of my son, he laughed. Not an uncomfortable, “leave me alone,” nervous kind of laugh, but a hearty, happy laugh.

He wasn’t what I’d expected at all. He didn’t appear to be depressed or slow. He didn’t seem to be someone hiding from the bitterness of life, just a curly-headed boy who loved to swing. Relieved again, assuming I wasn’t needed there, I said, “Have a great day,” and walked on.

But I heard the Lord softly chuckle as He said, “Your assignment’s not over.”

Why do I think that my prayers have to “fix” things? Do only those in trouble need prayer? Couldn’t I pray that the boy would stay safe and stay happy? That his bright eyes and warm smile would bless others, like me? Shouldn’t I rejoice and thank God that there are still 12-year old boys who haven’t been swallowed by the sadness of life, but who simply still love to swing?