While passing a spiky shrub laden with (surely) toxic red berries, my son suddenly reached forth his hand and delicately extracted a ladybug. We stood in speechless wonder while it roamed his fingertips.
Most of us have gone through spiky shrub epochs in our lives. Poisonous berries and thorns surround us, and we’re afraid to move lest we bleed–physically, emotionally, spiritually.
But amidst the perils are the ladybugs–small, fragile, yet powerful enough to make our very beings smile. We must open our eyes to see them.
I know some who fell into the spiky shrub of unemployment. They found ladybugs in volunteer work, or in the lifting of materialism from their hearts.
I know some who fell into the spiky shrub of grave illness. They found ladybugs in communion with family, or in the kindness of caregivers.
I know some who fell into the spiky shrub of grief. They found ladybugs in other relationships strengthened and in compassion gained.
Those were the really big spiky shrubs. They come in many shapes and sizes: depression to disappointment, rejection to remorse, frustration to fatigue, hate to hunger, sadness to sin, and every other thing that cuts into us or poisons our happiness.
Likewise, the ladybugs come in various ways: a night without pain, a burst of fresh flavor, a soothing scent in the breeze, a colorful sunset, a wise word from a child, a deep breath, a lingering melody.
Each is a small thing–a fragile moment–that takes the eyes away from the toxic berries and the thorns of life to see the glory of God’s watchful care of my every true need.
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