|photo by Jean Ann Williams|
“Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother:my soul is even as a weaned child.”
—Psalm 131:2 KJV
Way ahead of the Fourth of July, I became agitated.
How could I possibly bear several hours of loud bangs, pops, and blasts, let alone enjoy them without my son beside me? I still heard the shot that took my son’s life, my mind replaying it until my nerves crackled. I’d fall to my knees before Lord God and beg Him to stop the sound of that tragic moment.
My husband searched the Internet, found a quiet getaway in Santa Barbara, and reserved a room for the night. The place boasted of no TV or radio, and complete quiet from residents, which was a must.
Relieved, I longed for the Fourth now so I could rest. We drove our motorcycle, the first overnight trip since Joshua’s death, and burdens eased as the Harley Davidson sped further from home and the empty space where our son had lost his battle with life.
Our retreat sat tucked behind a knoll, surrounded and intertwined with majestic oaks, whose branches reached out and curled like beautiful art. My husband had turned off the bike’s motor three-fourths of the way up the driveway and pushed it to the office doorway.
After checking in, we went to the room. Yards from our door, a canopy of oaks spread over the expanse and down the hill. A soft breezed hushed over the place.
With benches situated every few yards on the compound, I stopped and rested. I cried once. I sighed a lot. My husband and I talked in soft tones. My heart and my soul needed this.
Later that evening, one muffled firework popped a long ways in the distance.
Lord, You gave me this restful time on a hillside retreat. You knew how much I could withstand and, at this moment, You allowed me a respite from my continual weeping. Thank you. In Jesus’s name. Amen.