Chasing Fireflies

One of my fondest childhood memories is of going to my great-grandmother's house on Sunday afternoons. This family tradition began long before my birth and continued until she died when I was around eight years old. I'm not sure if words can describe the emotions that rise up when I think of the faces of all of my aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and the joyful expression on the lips of my youthful mother.

There are some scenes I can remember so clearly - everyone gathered around that red kitchen table, my great grandmother cooking furiously, flour flying and pots boiling. Children running in and out the side door and frolicking on the rolling hills that surrounded the home. Sometimes just sitting on the front porch, swinging to and fro on the cushioned glider, or chasing fireflies and wishing on a blown dandelion puff. There were no jungle jims or swimming pools yet there was never a shortage of activities or people or laughter, or love.

It's all sometimes faint - sometimes vivid, sea of faces and moments burned into my mind like water-colored waves backing away slowly and rushing forward to wash over me and make me remember again and again - to make me feel that bittersweet bygone, echoing, don't forget, don't forget, don't ever forget the way this time, this pure innocent era gave me a glimpse into the heart of the Eternal.

I treasure these memories, I suppose because they remind me that we need each other, that there is nothing better than a love that just exists without boundaries or fear or judgment. To be surrounded by people who belong to something bigger than this world, something that lives beyond the mortal and stretches its arms out wide to embrace the less than beautiful, the less than brilliant, less than perfect. This Love searches for the child-likeness in us all and makes the simple firefly in a jar, become the sublime capture of our hearts.