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| Photo by Bgrace |
There are times things you’ve seen a thousand times before catch your fancy in a fresh way. Last year I found it to be so with fireflies. Their light at dusk seemed distinctly precious to me for some reason.
One evening, I took a walk on my path through the gardens and I asked the Lord to allow me to feel a close sense of His presence. I began to notice the fireflies. Just a couple here and there, but I sensed He was pointing them out to me as if to say, “I’m blessing you with this little bit of beauty.” My spirit felt caressed with warmth and I walked with God through the trees and flowers, sharing my heart and listening for His.
Yet there’s this part of me that always questions the reality of my experience, like maybe it’s just all in my imagination. Weeds of distrust choking the delicate blossoms of my faith. Deep down, I know it is He who "walks and talks with me and tells me I am His own," but that has been attacked so profoundly in my spirit that a shadow hovers over my shoulder. “It is you, isn’t it?” my insecurity whispers.
I began to descend the hill toward home, and as I turned and faced the open field below I stopped at the sight before me. The entire field was aglow with the light of fireflies. Thousands of fireflies. I was filled with awe. I’ve never seen it that way before or since that day. It was as if God was gently reassuring me with this question, “How many fireflies do you need to believe? Is this enough?”
I was reminded of a book on my shelf called Voice of Many Waters. In it was this poem by Lois Kilgore.
Still Light
Did you ever chase a firefly
Over shadowed dewy lawns?
Laughing, screaming at the beckoning
Twinkle as it led you on?
I remember underneath the
Giant Oak, I captured one,
Bore it home, my cupped hands trembling,
Bore it home, my light, my own.
In a jelly jar with leaves and
Bits of twigs and new-mown grass,
Crawled my prize, his life slow-sifting
Through his chambered hourglass,
Dimmer, dimming—then we slept,
And in the morning on a leaf
I saw a beetle, stiff and ugly,
Saw a bug and learned of grief
Have you tried to bottle love,
Or tried to capture things that shine?
“God,” I said, “my firefly died.”
“Yours?” said God, “His light was mine.”
I felt a bit disoriented by this poem. It touched me deeply, but my mind was scurrying to understand it in light of my experience. Then its message gripped me. How many times do I want to put the fireflies God shows me in a jar to prove to myself He really does speak to me? How many times do I want to bottle my experience so others will see the light of the firefly, and believe me? In the end all I have to show is a dead beetle!
God is always and forevermore the Giver of Light. He is the only One who can give transcendent truth through His creation. It is not the light of a firefly, but His light in the firefly that speaks.
So I will no longer try to catch the firefly to reassure myself. I will cling to His presence and the beautiful ways He has of revealing Himself and His promises to me. I will trust the Giver, not the gift. Instead of offering you dead beetles, may the writings of my experiences point you to the source of Light. It is not important that God speak to you in the way He speaks to me, but that you open yourself up to the possibility that there is a God who speaks in many ways to His children—even, at times, through fireflies. May my writings lead you to open your spirit to listen to Him, to believe in Him, and to be with Him—a God who can’t be kept in a jar.
“How precious are Your thoughts to me, O God!
How vast the sum of them!
If I should count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.
When I awake, I am still with You.”
Psalm 139:17-18
