The Lightning Bug

 

    I have always been fascinated by how a tiny bit of light can dispel so much darkness. I am reminded of this when I decide to walk from the kitchen through the utility room to the garage of our house and forget to turn on the light near the door. The lack of windows causes the room to instantly fill with darkness, except for this tiny slit of light peeking from under the garage door. It is enough to find my way through. I have also been amazed at the way God has taken care of me through the years in small and large ways. One of the most surprising, appreciated, and memorable demonstrations of God’s care came about on a summer evening through a lightning bug.

    Our two girls, ages five and nine, were in Girl Scouts, and I was a Girl Scout leader. Our two-year-old was an adventurous boy who did everything possible to keep up with his big sisters. We were all planning and preparing for a weekend Girl Scout camping trip at a Boy Scout camp on Rainey Mountain.  This event included Girl Scout troops from the entire area, not just our troop. We anticipated making corn husk dolls, hiking through the mountains, watching the sunset, singing around a campfire, munching on s’mores, and counting the stars before bed. For this trip, my husband was coming along, so it would be our first family camping trip, and the girls would be able to participate in all the Girl Scout activities and work toward earning a new Girl Scout badge. We expected to have a separate tent for our family while still camping close enough to enjoy the fun.

    Life seldom goes as planned, and this was definitely one of those times. While my husband was at work, I was responsible for packing the clothes, food, and camping supplies, inspecting the first aid kit, loading the car, and making sure everyone was ready to go. I was busy checking things off my list, adjusting outfits to make sure we could “dress for the weather,” like proper Girl Scouts, trying to keep everyone focused, and looking forward to the trip. It was just a weekend trip; rain was expected, but not too much. I do tend to be overly optimistic. First, my husband decided to join us on Saturday morning instead of spending Friday night. His reasoning was sound, and I did not see any cause for alarm. Second, our oldest was having a “difficult day,” and in my frustration, I almost called off the whole trip. Third, did I explain that rain was in the forecast?

    I chose not to cancel the trip, but our preparations took longer than I had anticipated. My Buffington roots were showing, which meant I was running a bit late—really late. I “knew” that this was a group camping trip, that the large tent area was surrounded by lights, and that I would have some help when we arrived. As we made our way to the campground, the sun set behind the mountains and the sky grew dark. I amused the kids in the car by going over our fun plans for the weekend and singing silly camp songs, including our favorite, “Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I guess I’ll go eat worms.”

    We arrived after the evening campfire ended, ready to set up our tent, unroll our sleeping bags, and get ready for bed. I met the organizer of the event who directed me to a different road to the right saying, “Because your husband is coming, your family will be camping in a separate area. Follow this road, turn left at the top of the hill, and you will see the Squirrel’s Nest—a three-sided shelter. Set up your camp there. The group is camping just down the hill from you.” Then she made a vague motion with her left hand that pointed somewhere in the darkness. I could not see any tents, campfires, or lanterns. I did not hear any singing, talking, or laughing. We headed slowly up the road, watching for the Squirrel’s Nest on the left.

    I was not concerned yet because I thought when I reached the top of the hill and found the Squirrel’s Nest, I would be able to look down the hill and see the group campsite, or the lights surrounding the area, or the embers from the dying campfires. I was not so fortunate. We found the three-sided shelter, which was a simple wooden structure, filled with six wire-framed cots, stacked in pairs like bunk beds. The description of our shelter was accurate. Three sides were enclosed and one side was totally open to nature—no door, no screen, and no way to separate us from whatever lurked in the darkness. The implications of my decision were beginning to settle over me as I tried to look down the hill for some sign of our group.

    Everyone was tired, and it was too late to retreat. I turned the car so that the headlights shone clearly on the inside of the shelter, and we began to set up camp. The night was quiet; the stars were asleep; and there was a gentle breeze. I found a large tarp and attached it to the open side of the shelter to make a pretend wall. Soon everyone found their flashlight, unrolled their sleeping bag, and arranged their pillow on their cot. The small outhouse was nearby, so everyone took care of personal business, changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. We didn’t have a camping lantern, so I secured a candle in an old tin can, lit it, and placed it on the concrete floor, away from everyone and everything. It served as a night-light as my babies drifted off to sleep.  I quickly parked the car in the appropriate area and turned off the headlights. As I reentered the shelter, the candlelight shone brightly, and my prayers began in earnest.

    I quickly prepared for bed.  Gripping my flashlight with my left hand and my asthma rescue inhaler with my right hand, I climbed into my sleeping bag and stared at the bottom of the empty cot above me. The candle was no longer for the children; it was for me. I lay there listening to the wind pick up and watching the tarp flutter, realizing how small I was on this big Earth. And it began to rain.

    Sleep escaped me that night. I heard scurrying sounds around the shelter and hoped nothing would decide to join us. The rain increased and pelted the tin roof while the candle burned down slowly. Time inched forward as I waited for some sign of morning. Then the candle went out and total darkness enveloped the shelter. I thought I had experienced darkness, but not like this. I could not see my hand in front of my face, and opening or closing my eyes made no difference. The darkness was absolute, and the isolation complete.

    I quickly turned on my flashlight, finding the light bright and stark compared to the warm glow of the candle, but at least it wasn’t dark. The children continued to sleep peacefully, and the rain continued to pour. I have no idea how much time passed. I heard more scuffling and scratching noises outside, but the little shelter was dry. Then my flashlight blinked and dimmed, blinked and dimmed. The batteries were dying—and then the light was gone. In the darkness, finding other flashlights seemed impossible without waking the children, and that would have frightened them.  The returning darkness seemed even darker after the flashlight’s bright beam. I resolved not to panic and waited for my eyes to adjust, hoping to see a sliver of light coming in from outside.

    I lay there, praying silently and waiting—my prayers condensed to a single word: “Help!” Suddenly, I realized there was a small light overhead. It was a lightning bug clinging to the underside of the cot directly above me. There was only one; it didn’t fly away; it didn’t move; and the light didn’t fade. I have seen a sparkle of lightning bugs on summer evenings as we ran and played, but on that night, I gazed in wonder at how much light came from one tiny insect. More time passed, and eventually I got up, tiptoed to the tarp, and peeked out. The rain still poured in the dark gray of early morning. When I returned to my cot to dress and get ready to build a campfire, the lightning bug was gone.    

AI generated image of my memory.

    I trudged outside, slopped through the mud, and built a small campfire beneath a pot on the grate to keep the pouring rain from extinguishing it. As the rain continued to pour, the sky changed to a lighter shade of gray. The children awoke and discovered shreds of toilet tissue scattered by some nighttime visitor. My husband arrived, and the planned events of the day began in spite of the deluge. By evening, our toddler had gone through six sets of clothing; we were all tired and soaked, so we broke camp and headed home.

    As we gratefully left the rain and mud behind, I thought back to the previous night. The tiny light of a solitary lightning bug chased away the darkness and reminded me that I am not alone. Through the years, whenever life has turned dark and scary and I have felt alone and small, I have remembered that lightning bug and found comfort in God’s love and care.