Whispers

Right as I settled into bed with a new hardback, my brother Matt tapped on our door. “Hey,” he whispered, since husband was already asleep. “Put on your shoes. You gotta come see this.”

Four of us, brother, husband, friend, and self, have rented a rambling tin-roofed house on an island north of Jacksonville. We’ve each come for different reasons. Brother just divorced, as in the ink is barely dry, and he wants to fish and fish and fish, and then fish some more.

Husband is tired. Work is wearing him out. Weekends haven’t fared much better, with Africa preparation, impromptu Tampa trips, Base Camp, and my ever-growing list of, “Matt! We should do this!” things. Bone tired.

Friend wants to write and read and walk and bike and nap. Friend is wise.

And I want to talk with my brother and make husband all his favorite meals and update my blog and read until my eyes cross. What I am doing is listening: to the birds, to my people, to my thoughts.

So, last night, when brother tapped on my door and said, “Come now,” I did. I padded down the stairs after him and friend, all of us in our sleepy-clothes, the scent of citronella clinging to our skin.

Matt opened the front door of the house, and there. Hundreds and hundreds of fireflies, like tiny, silent firecrackers winking in the night.

Brother and friend tiptoed into the yard. I sat down on the top step of the porch. We spoke just a little (“Oh, my word,” “I’ve never …” “Can you believe it?”) in the holy hushed tones reserved for cathedrals and funerals.

Tonight, we will step out again, this time venturing all the way to the oak-canopied dirt road, where we hope to see a tunnel of twinkling lights. We’ll swat at the chiggers and horseflies. We will giggle when we stumble over tree roots. We’ll wonder if middle-age has rendered us prematurely dotty.

And we will whisper because that is right when God answers our hopes with light.