On bright, clear summer days on our family farm I wasted happy hours on the wooden swing hanging from the maple tree. Something about flying through the air, trying to touch the clouds, made me feel closer to God. One afternoon I was halfway to the sky when I heard a voice.
“You’d better get out of the swing before it breaks,” the voice said. My legs stopped pumping and I turned around to see who was there. No one. Mom was inside.
“Get out of the swing,” the voice said firmly. I slowed to a stop and looked around. Still no one. Our nearest neighbors were half a mile away. Dad wasn’t home. Spooked, I ran inside.
“Momma, did you call to me in the backyard?” I asked.
“No, sweetheart,” she said. Curious, I went back to the swing. It looked as strong as always. I sat down gently. The wooden plank snapped in half!
Dad said exposure to the elements had turned the wood brittle. He built me a new one. Flying through the air on my swing still made me feel close to God. After all, that was where I’d heard his voice.
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