Deacon Paul Nghia Pham

THE EMPTY SWING

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.” — 2 Corinthians 5:7

It was a quiet afternoon in early spring, the kind when the world feels halfway awake. The air was cool, the sky still deciding between gray and blue. I went for a walk through the park near our neighborhood—a place filled with the simple noises of life: children laughing, dogs barking, the rhythmic creak of swings swaying back and forth.

At the far end of the playground stood a single swing set. Two swings hung there, side by side. On one, a little boy was playing while his father pushed gently from behind. The boy’s laughter carried through the air, bright and free. On the other swing—just next to them—an empty seat swayed in perfect rhythm, as if moved by an unseen hand.

Something about that image stopped me. The two swings—one filled with laughter, the other empty—looked like a picture of faith itself: joy and mystery, presence and absence, all in motion together.

I sat down on a nearby bench and watched for a while. The father pushed the swing, then stepped back, letting the boy soar higher. Each time the child reached the peak, he’d shout, “Don’t let go, Daddy!”

And the father would smile and call back, “I’m right here!”

Eventually, the boy slowed down, his laughter fading into the steady rhythm of the chains. Then he jumped off, ran to the empty swing, and gave it a push. “Your turn,” he said to no one in particular. The swing began to move again—back and forth, back and forth—cutting through the air with a sound like a soft breath.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Sometimes faith feels exactly like that empty swing—moving without knowing who’s pushing. You feel the motion but not the hands. You sense the rhythm but not the source.

A light breeze swept through the park, making the trees whisper and the swings sway in unison. For a moment, both seats moved perfectly together—one occupied, one not—and it felt almost sacred, like an invisible presence joining in.

I thought of the verse: “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” I’ve read it a hundred times, but that afternoon, it looked different through the image of that swing. We trust that there are hands behind us even when we can’t see them—hands that guide, sustain, and steady us.

After a few minutes, the father and son left, hand in hand. The playground emptied, leaving the swings still moving faintly in the wind. The one that had been empty now moved the longest, rocking back and forth long after the other had stilled. I stood there, watching it, realizing that maybe faith lingers longer than our senses do. Even when sight grows quiet, belief keeps swinging.

That image stayed with me all week.

A few days later, I visited a woman in the hospital who was struggling to recover from surgery. Her faith had always been strong, but that day she looked tired. “Deacon,” she said softly, “I don’t feel God like I used to. I pray, but it’s just silence now.”

I paused, remembering the empty swing.

“Maybe He’s closer than you think,” I said. “Sometimes when you can’t feel His hands, it just means He’s giving you the chance to fly.”

She smiled faintly. “You mean like a parent pushing a child?”

“Yes,” I said. “The child thinks he’s alone because he can’t see behind him. But the Father never steps away.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I hope so.”

“I know so,” I said.

When I left her room, I looked out the window at the hospital courtyard. The wind had picked up, stirring the trees. A small flag on the pole fluttered and then stilled, as if bowing in prayer. I thought, The Spirit moves just like that—unseen, but never absent.

That evening, I walked back through the same park. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. The swing set was empty this time, both seats gently moving in the breeze. No laughter, no voices—just the sound of metal chains singing softly in the air.

I stood there for a while, letting the rhythm steady me. It felt as though God was whispering through that simple motion, saying, Even when no one is here, I still am.

Faith, I realized, is not about holding on to certainty—it’s about trusting the unseen push that keeps us in motion. The world tells us to look for proof, but the Gospel calls us to feel the wind and know Who sent it.

When I got home, I told my wife about the swings. She listened quietly, then said, “Maybe the empty one isn’t empty at all. Maybe it’s just waiting for the next child.”

Her words made me smile. That’s the secret of faith—it’s not about filling every silence but trusting that love will fill it in time.

The next morning, I drove past the park again on my way to church. The swing set stood still in the early light. Dew sparkled on the chains. For a brief moment, I saw a bird land on the empty seat. It perched there, weightless, as the swing began to move ever so slightly.

I couldn’t help but think: even creation takes its turn in God’s play.

As I drove away, the verse returned once more—“We walk by faith, not by sight.” Or maybe, I thought, we swing by faith, trusting that even when the air feels empty, His hands are still behind us.

That afternoon, I stopped by the hospital again. The woman I’d visited before was sitting up, smiling. “I feel stronger today,” she said.

“See?” I told her. “You were never standing still. God’s been pushing the whole time.”

She laughed softly. “Then I guess I’ll keep swinging.”

And I said, “That’s faith.”

Even when you can’t see His hands, God is still the One gently keeping you in motion.