My earliest introduction to fireflies was at my grandparents' house in the Ozark mountains. They had (still have, in fact) a huge sturdy oak tree that had been twice struck by lightning - a scar on the broad trunk its only acknowledgement of an event that reduced its ash neighbor to scattered splinters - and fireflies rose from the acidic soil like shards of lightning returning to the sky.
I danced beneath the oak, gazing up into branches thick with leathery leaves and clusters of mistletoe, the air thick with humidity and jarfly screeching, and the scattered twinkle of fireflies. I caught them gently, one by one, whispering a wish and letting them go, watching them rise to join the stars. No one taught me this, but in my child heart I believed that if any earthly creature could carry my small desires to the Creator of the Milky Way, it was these tiny light bearers.
In the sanctuary of that sacred oak, I reveled in the warm embrace of the darkness, because in its safety hidden things were revealed. A sleek fox, an unconcerned skunk, an oblivious opossum, a rotund mama raccoon and her unruly string of babies - night held no fear, because it also held fireflies, lifting my words to join the constellations above.
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Growing up in tiny churches, spending my Sundays in red-cushioned pews with KJV bibles and worn hymnals tucked into wooden pockets on their backs, I was always drawn to the words about Creator and creation.
This is my Father's world, the birds their carols raise / the morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker's praise.
For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies / for the love which from our birth, over and around us lies / Lord our God to Thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.
All Thy earth with joy surrounds Thee, earth and heaven reflect Thy rays / stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.
Praise to the Lord, the almighty, the King of creation / oh my soul praise Him for He is thy health and salvation.
A theme emerged. I took the words I learned outside, singing while swinging or climbing a tree. I watched nature with wide-eyed wonder, taking every fallen feather and fossil-cradling stone as a gift from the Hand That Wrote All. I decked myself in clover garlands and dandelion rings and queen Anne's lace crowns. The sun, the wind, and the rippling water were my trinity, the earth my foundation, the birdsong my choir.
I once let slip during a bible study that I understood how people could worship the sun - not that I did, but that if someone was looking around for the thing that most represented God, that was the most logical conclusion. The horrified faces of the circle of church ladies quickly silenced me, but nature is still the temple I turn to.
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