There are certain signs that summer has fully arrived.
The first tomato appears in the garden. Lawn mowers begin their weekly symphony. The ice cream truck somehow knows precisely when every child within three postal codes is awake.
And then, almost on cue, comes another ancient summer tradition.
The mosquitoes hold their annual convention.
Now, I have no scientific evidence for this whatsoever, but I remain convinced they hold committee meetings beforehand.
“Friends,” announces the Chair-Mosquito while adjusting his imaginary spectacles, “our first order of business is selecting this year’s primary target.”
At which point every tiny mosquito wing immediately points in my direction.
I have never understood why mosquitoes find me so appealing. I like to think it is because I possess unusually rich Anglican blood, aged carefully over thirty-three years of ordained ministry, with subtle notes of coffee, gluten-free baking, and occasional golf.
Whatever the reason, they seem deeply committed to making me feel personally welcomed outdoors.
One mosquito is merely an inconvenience.
Two mosquitoes are manageable.
Three hundred and forty-seven mosquitoes transform an evening stroll into what can only be described as an ecumenical prayer service, because suddenly one begins calling upon saints from every Christian tradition.
Grace abounds.
Of course, there are always those wonderfully cheerful people who insist mosquitoes serve an important ecological purpose.
I am quite prepared to believe this.
I simply question whether they require quite so much enthusiasm while fulfilling it.
Yet even in this annual battle, there is something quietly theological happening.
Mosquitoes have an extraordinary ability to pull us out of the present moment.
Instead of admiring the sunset, we begin scanning the horizon like nervous air-traffic controllers.
Instead of listening to birdsong, we become experts in detecting that faint, high-pitched whine somewhere just behind our left ear.
Instead of peacefully enjoying creation, we suddenly resemble people performing interpretive dance in the middle of the backyard.
It is not our most dignified look.
Perhaps that is part of the lesson.
Life is full of little irritations.
Not tragedies.
Not disasters.
Just the tiny, persistent annoyances that nibble away at our patience.
The slow driver.
The computer update that chooses exactly the wrong moment.
The grocery cart with one rebellious wheel.
The person who replies to every suggestion with, “Well actually…”
And, naturally, mosquitoes.
Most of life is not shaped by great crises.
It is shaped by how we respond to the little things.
St. Paul writes about the fruit of the Spirit, and I have noticed he includes patience long before he ever mentions mosquito repellent.
Perhaps for good reason.
Because patience is usually not learned during life’s mountaintop moments.
It is learned while scratching one more mosquito bite and deciding not to let it ruin an otherwise beautiful evening.
There is another curious thing about mosquitoes.
No matter how many there seem to be, they never succeed in cancelling summer.
We still gather around campfires.
We still sit on porches.
We still walk country roads.
We still laugh with neighbours.
We still watch grandchildren chase bubbles across the lawn.
The mosquitoes are present.
But they do not get the final word.
That feels remarkably close to the Gospel.
There will always be something trying to steal our joy.
Some worry.
Some disappointment.
Some inconvenience.
Some persistent buzzing around the edges of life.
Yet the love of God remains larger.
Joy remains possible.
Laughter still echoes around picnic tables.
Hope still blooms beside tomato plants.
And grace, as always, quietly refuses to surrender.
So the next time a mosquito interrupts your peaceful summer evening, smile if you can.
Wave your arms about with whatever dignity remains.
Apply another generous layer of bug spray.
Then return to watching the sunset.
Because the mosquitoes may be persistent…
…but so is God.
And in the end, I have every confidence about which one will win.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of summer—the long evenings, warm breezes, singing birds, blooming gardens, and even the lessons hidden among the mosquitoes.
When life’s little irritations begin to buzz around us, grant us patience instead of frustration, laughter instead of complaint, and hearts that refuse to lose sight of your goodness.
Help us not to allow small inconveniences to steal the joy you have so generously given. Teach us to notice the beauty that surrounds us, to cherish the people beside us, and to remember that your grace is always greater than whatever distracts or annoys us.
May we carry your peace wherever we go, trusting that your love is more persistent than our worries and your hope stronger than our fears.
In the name of Jesus Christ, whose joy no circumstance could overcome, we pray.
Amen.