There are few creatures in God’s creation that seem quite so determined to ignore every known law of aerodynamics as the dragonfly.
Now, I realize that scientists assure us they understand perfectly well how dragonflies fly. They have equations. Charts. Wind tunnel experiments. I wish them every success.
But from where I stand, sitting beside a Southern Ontario pond with a cup of coffee in one hand and absolutely no intention of doing anything strenuous until at least lunchtime, it appears that dragonflies simply make it up as they go along.
They dart. They hover. They zip sideways for reasons known only to themselves and, presumably, to God.
And somehow… it all works.
Summer, of course, is dragonfly season. Around lakes, rivers, marshes, and quiet backyards, they appear almost like tiny living jewels. Blue. Green. Gold. Brilliant flashes of colour catching the sunlight before disappearing again as though they had an important meeting elsewhere.
They have always fascinated me.
When I was younger, I imagined they were tiny helicopters patrolling the neighbourhood. As an adult, I have come to realize that this theory is no less plausible than many of the explanations offered on the internet.
Now, one of the delightful things about dragonflies is that they are remarkably good neighbours. They feast on mosquitoes. Frankly, I believe this alone should qualify them for several civic awards and perhaps honorary membership in the Anglican Church.
Anything willing to reduce mosquito populations deserves at least a place on the parish council.
But beyond their practical usefulness, dragonflies invite us to notice something about the Creator.
God delights in beauty that serves no obvious purpose beyond delight itself.
Yes, dragonflies eat insects. But surely they did not have to be quite so beautiful while doing it.
Creation is filled with this sort of joyful extravagance.
Wildflowers blooming where no one may ever see them.
Sunsets that could have been perfectly functional without becoming masterpieces.
Birdsong beginning long before anyone is awake enough to applaud the performance.
The world is overflowing with little reminders that God is not merely efficient.
God is wonderfully, gloriously generous.
Which is perhaps why Jesus spent so much time pointing people toward creation.
“Consider the lilies.”
“Look at the birds.”
He knew that paying attention changes us.
Ordinary Time in the Church is rather like that.
After the fireworks of Easter and Pentecost, we are invited into the quieter work of noticing.
Noticing grace.
Noticing kindness.
Noticing beauty.
Noticing that God continues creating miracles without issuing press releases.
Now, I confess that I sometimes rush through summer just as I rush through the rest of the year.
There are lawns to mow.
Groceries to buy.
Emails that appear to multiply in much the same way as loaves and fishes, although with considerably less theological satisfaction.
And yet every so often a dragonfly lands nearby.
Everything stops.
For a brief moment, the world is simply beautiful.
No sermon.
No committee meeting.
No agenda.
Just a tiny shimmering creature resting on a cattail as though the entire afternoon had nowhere more important to be.
Perhaps that is the invitation.
To live a little more like dragonflies.
Not the darting about part—that already describes most clergy remarkably well.
Rather, the part where they remind us that beauty belongs in ordinary life.
That joy need not be earned.
That creation is still quietly preaching the goodness of God every single day.
So today, if you happen to notice a dragonfly hovering nearby, receive it as a tiny summer blessing.
Smile.
Pause for a moment.
Offer thanks.
Because sometimes the Gospel arrives not through dramatic miracles or thunderous voices from heaven…
…but on four transparent wings glistening in the July sunshine.
And that, I suspect, is exactly the sort of thing Jesus would have asked us to notice.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious Creator,
Thank you for the beauty that surrounds us each day—the dragonflies that dance above the water, the birds that greet the morning, and the countless small wonders that remind us of your generous love.
Slow our hurried hearts. Open our eyes to notice the quiet miracles we so often pass by. Teach us to delight in your creation, to receive each day as a gift, and to find your presence in the ordinary moments of summer.
May our lives reflect the joy, beauty, and grace that you have woven into the world from the very beginning.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.