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| 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.
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