Lord of the Flies
I was cleaning cold spaghetti worms off the floor after supper. The boys had gone out to ride tricycles in the summer dusk. It had been raining, but rays of sunset pierced through a few less resistant clouds. Distant thunder rumbled far on the horizon.
A cold pea gleefully skittered away from my broom. I was debating whether to use up tupperware and fridge space on a half serving of spaghetti and meatballs when the dryer beeped that it was done. The sound reminded me that I had towels on the clothesline. Thunder rumbled again, closer now. The towels had been out there twenty four hours and a solid rainstorm already. I really couldn’t procrastinate bringing them in any longer; the neighbors would question my understanding of local weather. That wouldn’t do.
I left the noodles to congeal on the counter and hurried out to the deck. The five year old was standing there, gazing toward the city skyline and thunderclouds growing above it.
“Kinda pretty, huh?” I said, acknowledging his appreciation for the evening sky before us. The clothesline hinges squeaked as I hauled damp towels toward me. Somebody’s flip flops had been flung at the edge of the deck. They were muddy. I ignored them and gathered the wet towels into a pile. The five year old was still just staring.
“Mom, can you see the flies?” He asked, pointing just above the trees. I bent down and squinted like an old woman. Flies? So what? I thought, but tried to see what could so hold his attention. There was a cluster of them, maybe half a dozen, black against the light gray clouds. They moved fast, up down, around, maybe backwards, I couldn’t and didn’t bother to tell. But he could. “They’re dancing, Mom. Dancing for God.”
I stared, now at my son rather than the waltzing bugs. Of course they were. All creation reveals the majesty of God… Every creature sings His praise. Even these, the descendants of maggots who likely began in my garbage can, eating our leftover spaghetti, were right there to remind me of this. They were glorifying our Maker. They were thanking Him in advance for the leftovers I was grumbling about chucking. They couldn’t talk; they didn’t think; they would likely be dead by tomorrow. But they praised God in their free little helter-skelter buzzing way. And my son knew it.
Thunder rumbled once more. I looked up at the towering clouds and hugged my young son against my side. He pushed away from the wet towels I’d smushed into his face, but I hardly noticed. Sometimes I get distracted, see, by the majesty of my Maker. He deserves my praise. Humbly, I apologized for not giving it more often. It’s not comfortable to be put to shame by my own offspring.
Or a housefly.
Don’t let it happen to you.