Singing Grace

So we stand there and listen long, and neither one of us can stop smiling and I almost forget to breathe.

The frogs have returned, the frogs and their song.

Why does the trilling in the throat of a frog do this wondrous thing inside of me?

The oldest boy, he and the dog go crashing off through that worn carpet of leaves all rustling, boy and lab questing for big things.

But Littlest One and I?

We’ve already found it.

That sound.

A symphony of sound, trilling low and deep, fills the spaces between the trees, lifts us too. It is like the water, a looking glass of trunks and limbs, like the water itself croons.

With the everyday eyes I can’t see the singers at all. It takes time for eyes to adjust to stillness, and only the slow really see.

Then — there they are, on the far side. There! These glinting eyes flickering up through waters. The peepers are back, and we can see them, see the source of the song. Who doesn’t want front-row seats to glory?

Can we pick our way across the swamp — can we get any closer?

She squeezes my hand tight and we splash across the bog and in a flash, the pond snaps shut.

All is soundless. Just this glassy reflection of maple branches pointing up to that curve of muted moon come early.

She and I swish-swash farther out, as far as we can go. Then wait.

On this isle of tangled grass, the water slowly rises up to our boot ankles. A red-tailed hawk swoops and soars, his wings motionless on the currents. The moon rides higher, tailing sun dipping. We say nothing, this Little One and I, but watch the swamp’s mirror, waiting stock-still for the singers to surface.

The dog, loud and large, charges up, smashing our reflection of anticipation.

“Go, Boaz,” she whispers too loud at the dog. “We’re waiting for the frogs to sing!”

From within the woods somewhere, a brother whistles, and Boaz ricochets off.

We wait. Then one by one, they pop to the light. We catch our breath. Dare not move.

Tentatively it comes, this chorus, then crescendo, throaty yet gilded, and she squeezes my hand and we’re spellbound, smiling silly.

I could sit here forever, listening.

Doesn’t all the hurry make us hurt?

Slow never killed time. It’s the rushing and racing, the trying to catch up, this is what kills time — ourselves.

Why in the world do we keep wounding ourselves?

Life is not an emergency.

And this, this is the only way to slow down time …

Long, so very long, she and I, we just sit. We just soak in frog songs on golden pond. When our toes are cold and the shadows stretch, I stand slow, not wanting to.

“We leaving the frogs, now?” she whispers up to me.

I nod … reluctant.

So Littlest One, she swings round and two splashing steps into it, all falls quiet.

The sudden hush turns our heads.

The swamp’s soundless, blinked silent by hurried sloshing.

I scoop up one wide-eyed little girl and whisper into her the ways of God:

“You can only hear your life sing — when you still.”

Father God, You tell me to still. For the very best of reasons. So today — I will. I’ve been missing the songs far too long.