There are few things more capable of transporting an adult human being directly back into childhood than the sudden appearance of fireflies on a summer evening.
Now, I realize that scientifically speaking they are “lightning bugs.”
But I have always preferred the term fireflies because it sounds considerably more magical and significantly less like something requiring pest control.
And magical is precisely what they seem.
One moment the yard is settling quietly into dusk.
Then suddenly:
Tiny lights.
Drifting through the darkness like little floating sparks of wonder.
Now, I should confess that I have never entirely outgrown my affection for them.
There remains something deeply joyful about standing outside on a warm June evening watching tiny lights flicker over the grass while the air smells faintly of cut lawns and summer itself.
And somewhere deep inside, the soul remembers what wonder feels like.
Now, children generally respond to fireflies with tremendous enthusiasm and highly questionable coordination.
They run across the lawn attempting capture operations that involve equal parts excitement, optimism, and absolutely no strategic planning whatsoever.
I remember those evenings well.
Jars with holes punched in the lids.
Bare feet in the grass.
Entirely unrealistic confidence regarding one’s ability to catch things that can fly.
Grace abounds.
But what fascinates me now is how rarely adults stop to notice them at all.
We become busy.
Distracted.
Concerned with practical matters and entirely sensible responsibilities.
And gradually, without meaning to, we lose the habit of standing still long enough to marvel at small beautiful things.
Which is unfortunate.
Because creation remains full of tiny sermons.
And fireflies preach one of the loveliest of them all:
Light matters most when darkness begins to fall.
Now, Ordinary Time may actually be the perfect season for rediscovering this.
The Church’s long green season teaches us to notice grace not only in dramatic mountaintop moments, but in ordinary evenings and quiet beauty.
The little things.
Birdsong.
Summer breezes.
Fireflies drifting through twilight.
And perhaps this matters spiritually because much of life is lived precisely there—in ordinary moments we are tempted to rush past.
Jesus Himself seemed remarkably attentive to small things.
Seeds.
Birds.
Lilies.
Tiny living reminders that God’s presence saturates creation far more thoroughly than we usually notice.
And perhaps fireflies belong somewhere on that list as well.
Because every flicker of light against the darkening sky feels strangely hopeful.
Quietly defiant.
A tiny proclamation that beauty still exists.
Now, I realize this may seem an excessive amount of theology to attach to insects.
But honestly, the Gospel itself repeatedly insists that small things matter enormously.
Small kindnesses.
Small acts of faithfulness.
Small lights shining steadily in difficult times.
The Kingdom of God, after all, often arrives quietly.
Not always through spectacle.
Sometimes through flickering grace scattered gently across an ordinary summer evening.
And perhaps the soul needs such moments now more than ever.
Moments of wonder.
Moments of beauty without agenda or productivity.
Moments when we stop long enough simply to delight in creation again.
So perhaps this Saturday evening, if darkness falls softly and the weather is warm enough…
Step outside.
Watch the yard carefully.
Wait for the first tiny flicker of light.
And remember that God continues filling the world with beauty meant not merely to be analyzed…
…but enjoyed.
Even if somewhere nearby an enthusiastic child is still attempting highly unsuccessful firefly capture operations.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Creator God,
Thank you for the quiet beauty of summer evenings.
Open our eyes to wonder again.
Teach us to notice the small gifts
that fill creation with light and joy.
In moments of darkness,
help us remember that even tiny lights matter.
And through all the beauty of this ordinary world,
draw our hearts toward gratitude, peace, and delight.
Amen.