There’s something simple about pushing a child on a swing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
No conversation is required.
It’s a gentle rhythm.
A nostalgic, quiet kind of joy.
That was our plan that day — just a simple, “Let’s go outside and play on the swing.” I had recently hung one of those saucer-style swings, the kind that looks like a small trampoline.
My grandson loved it. He could tuck his legs in and hold on to the thick, soft ropes while I pushed him.
Just a simple push.
But it didn’t stay that way for long.
“Can you push me higher?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Like high into outer space or just into the trees?”
I gave him a stronger push.
“That’s Force Level One,” I told him.
He asked how high a Force Level Two push would take him.
A little higher. A little faster.
By the time we reached Force Level Three, it was no longer a quiet swing in the yard. It was a squealing, laughter-filled adventure — the kind that comes from your whole body, the kind you can’t hold in.
“Force Level Four!” he shouted.
Now his hands were gripping tighter, and the swing had become a space saucer.
And then…
Force Level Five.
With that push, he climbed higher, until for a moment — just a moment — his head brushed into the soft leaves of the maple tree, the swing lifting nearly level as his space saucer tilted skyward.
His laughter echoed through the yard, carried by the wind and the motion and the sheer delight of it. Even a squirrel along the fence line paused, as if to wonder at all the commotion.
Eventually, we slowed. Force Level Five had been reached, and the small astronaut declared the mission complete.
But not for long.
Because then came the spinning.
With him still on the swing, I twisted the ropes as tightly as I could, and I let them unwind into dizzying speed — a whirlwind of giggles and motion and pure joy.
I’m no scientist, but I knew he was experiencing centrifugal force.
When it finally stopped and he squealed, “Again!” I said, “Hold on — I want to show you something.”
I ran into the shed and gathered whatever balls I could find — tennis, golf, baseball, wiffle balls— and brought them back.
“Watch what happens when we spin it and put these on.”
He climbed off, and I twisted the swing again.
“Okay, load them on.”
He eagerly placed each one, and I let the swing go.
And then…
he watched in delight as the spinning force sent the balls flying off, one by one.
We tried it again.
Then he wanted to spin again, wondering why he didn’t fly off too.
And then…
stillness.
It was time to stop swinging and spinning and catch our breath.
We carried the balls back to the shed and set down on a couple of milk crates and exhaled.
Then….the wind blew the door shut behind us.
Inside, it was dark.
But also quiet. Calm.
“Cool,” he said.
“Let’s sit here for a bit,” I said, “and enjoy the dark.”
And then we began to imagine.
What was happening out there now that we weren’t watching?
Now that we weren’t filling the backyard with noise and whirling swings?
Were the trees still swaying from the force of the launches?
Had the birds returned?
Had the squirrel come back to enjoy his space again?
Had something else taken over the swing?
In the quiet darkness, the backyard didn’t feel empty.
It felt… alive.
I’ve learned that joy doesn’t always come from big plans or complicated ideas.
Sometimes it begins with something as simple as a push on a swing.
And sometimes…
if you’re willing to follow along…
you just might reach Force Level Five.
(Grandson side note: We reached Force Level Seven.)