Lessons from the Cicada

This morning started out with a groan.

I stayed up way too late last night reading a book.  So when the alarm clock went off at 6 a.m., I turned it off and groaned. 

Before the groan had fully escaped my mouth, I was convicted.  As much of a complainer as I tend to be, it's pretty remarkable that I was convicted so quickly.  But I knew I had no reason to groan.  It was morning.  It was a new day full of new mercies.  And I was alive.

And I got up and got dressed, resolving to try to refrain from complaining and groaning (which probably only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it's a start).  I was getting my snacks ready for the day when I realized the trash needed to be taken out.  Since my roommate has been out of town for over a week, I've realized that the trash can doesn't magically empty itself.  Someone has to take it.  And since I'm the only one currently staying at my apartment, that someone had to be me. 

So I took out the trash and was greeted by a few pleasant things.  First, my senses were embraced by a refreshing coolness.  Since I'm too cheap to use the air conditioner, it was probably about 15 degrees hotter in my apartment than it was in the morning outdoor air.  The sudden and unexpected coolness felt alive; it seemed to indicate that this summer season and its oppressive heat aren't going to last forever--change is coming soon. 

The second pleasantry was the noises of creation.  There were birds singing, as they do pretty much year round (why some of those crazy birds don't migrate in the winter is a mystery to me.  If I had wings, I'd SO be migrating to warmer places come winter).  There were also the songs of the cicadas--which I thought were supposed to sing when it's hot and not when it's cool, but I guess they just like making noise whenever.

I had a conversation with some friends the other night about cicadas.  We came to the conclusion that it would pretty much suck to be a cicada--at least the kind of cicada that hides underground for 17 years.  Not all of them do.  Some of them are only underground a couple of years.  Some are underground 13 years.  Others are underground 17.  Thank you, Wikipedia.

So imagine being a cicada who lives underground for 17 years.  You haven't seen the sun since you were a little bitty newly hatched baby buggy.  You live in the dirt.  That's gotta be pretty boring--those earthworms are pretty dull neighbors from what I hear.  Finally, after 17 long years of waiting in darkness, you reach adulthood and emerge out into the sunlit surface, where you molt off your old cicada shell, ready to embrace your brand new life.  You sing out your lovely cicada song, happy to be alive and free in a brave new world!

Then you get eaten by a bird.

Yeah.  It would suck to be a cicada.

But the thing is, the cicadas still sing.  I think this must be one of those end of the 17 year cycle years, because they seem to be so much louder than usual this year.  And it makes me happy to hear them sing.  It makes me happy because they're singing as they were designed to sing.  I know that boy cicadas sing to attract girl cicadas, but the bottom line is, God made them to do that.  So when they sing, they're doing what they were made to do, and therefore, they are glorifying God.

The thing is, a cicada doesn't have any say in the matter.  It glorifies God just by being what it is.  But I'm a human being.  I've got the power to choose whether I'm going to sing or groan, whether I'm going to glorify God or not.  And I haven't lived underground for 17 years, waiting to come to the surface.  It's highly unlikely that I'll wake up tomorrow morning and get eaten by a bird.  In fact, no matter what happens to me, as long as I'm alive, I know I'm going to get up tomorrow and be greeted by tons of grace that I don't deserve.

So my prayer is that I wake up tomorrow and start the day with a song.

Still

I'm a wretched poet (my lyrical Dragon-Muse, Dravaena, has her work cut out for her). Usually, when I write poems, they're in the forms of song lyrics. I'm just not creative to make anything sound good unless it rhymes. Even then, it usually doesn't sound good. And even if it does...years could go by before I come up with some decent music (you know, using the 10 or so guitar chords I know) to put to the words.

But sometimes some lyrics find me, and I know that these lyrics are going to have to have music to them someday. This happened to me yesterday. I was writing a poem...but it wasn't quite right yet. I got really drowsy. I fell asleep. I had a vision.

An actual vision.

It's not the first time it's happened to me. It's been the first time it's happened in a long while. It wasn't even anything clear, but something happened.

It wasn't words. It wasn't even images. It was just a knowledge--a knowledge that something's about to happen. I don't even know what it is, but I have a few ideas. The thing is, it doesn't matter what's going to happen. Now's the time to wait for whatever it is, and there's beauty in waiting. There's beauty in the expectation and anticipation. If I didn't have to wait and get excited about Christmas, it wouldn't be as wonderful when it finally came. Right now, God is calling me to wait expectantly for what He has for me.

And since I've only got a handful of readers anyway, I figured I might as well share the lyrics that came to me yesterday. Because when I woke up from that dream-vision, I was able to finish it.



Still

The Wind is still.
The sky is white with cloud,
But the sun breaks through.
Gold streams down from heaven.
Kissing the earth with dreams
That have already come true.

...but I still have a few dreams left to dream...

And I lift up my head
And I look towards the sun
And sparrows soar like eagles
And You watch every one.

My heart beats inside my chest
Rattling these world-weary bones,
And I long for the Wind to stir in me--
I yearn for it to rage and blow.
Yet my eyes are too weak to see,
And my heart is too frail to know.
Still I lift up my head.
The Wind is still.

And even in the smallest stirrings
I can't feel Wind on my face.
It doesn't scatter through my hair.
But the trees dance so gently
With anticipation and with joy,
For they know You're there.

...and You're the One who's leading...

And I lift up my head
And I feel for that breeze
And though I'm not moving,
I am dancing with the trees.

My heart pounds inside my chest
Rattling these world-weary bones.
And I long for the Wind to stir in me--
I yearn for it to rage and blow.
Yet my eyes are too weak to see,
And my heart is too frail to know.
Still I lift up my head.

All creation is silent
In the calm before the storm.
All creation is expectant
To see what lies in store.
And I know You're going to move in me
Stronger than ever before
Though the Wind is still.

The Wind is still.

I lift up my head.
I lift up my eyes.
I wait for You.
The Wind is still.