The Liturgy of the Lightning Bug

In the 1970’s, summer nights in Georgia were warm and sultry. When the sun set and the cooling of the day began, the time for evening adventures would commence.

My siblings, my cousins, and I would play a few raucous rounds of “Kick the Can.” While we ran around the yard trying to outwit each other to kick the can and set everyone free from their hiding places, the lightning bugs would begin to blink across the yard.

The bug catcher of our day was the latest emptied-out mayonnaise or coffee jar.  We’d beg our parents for a clean jar and use a bottle opener to pry holes in the lid.

In the dark of the night, we would view the twinkle of lightning bugs near the trees and bushes. We would race to them, coax them into our hands, and into the jar. When the bugs seemed to tire and the light would slow down, we would clap our hands, thinking that would bring them back to life. We would clap furiously until the lights began to blink again. Somehow it seemed to work.

When we tired of the chase and catch, we would sit in the yard with our bugs and watch them blinking their soft lights in our jars. Whether we knew it or not, the light, the cool grass, and the warm evening air were part of a calming ritual. They eased our bodies, minds, and spirits into a calming space.

We would revisit this ritual of chasing lightning bugs year after year on the summer nights of our childhood until it became like a liturgy for us.

Liturgy means a common response to the Divine. For most of us, we refer to the words of worship as our liturgy. Liturgy literally means “the work of the people.”

Catching glimpses of light across our front yard, chasing the light, capturing it, and then letting it go was a liturgy for us. Our young hearts didn’t know it at the time, but this childhood ritual was taking root in our lives as a symbol of the summers of our youth and a connection with the Divine.

Over the years, it seems that lightning bugs have become less populous. I don’t know if their numbers have shrunk or if my perception has changed; however, this summer I have noticed more twinkling lights than usual in my backyard.

While my grandsons were visiting with us this summer, I decided to make their visit as memorable as I could. We pulled out all the summer traditions – swimming, staying up past bedtime, homemade ice cream, and catching lightning bugs.

Ryder, our almost four-year-old grandson, was all about these summer adventures. When we declared his first evening with us as a lightning-bug-catching night, I don’t know who was more excited, Ryder or all the adults in the room.

When dusk settled, the hunt began. The elders in the group were chasing the bugs and Ryder around the yard. We all had our own technique to share with him. In step with the ways of our childhood, we fashioned mason jars into bug catchers and began to fill them up.

I stood there and realized that for those few moments, we were all kids again. We were practicing the liturgy of the lightning bug. With toes in the grass and the evening air wrapped around us, we were passing on a childhood ritual. We were teaching Ryder the liturgy of dwelling in green pastures, of letting go of worry and fear, and of being with God in creation.

It’s a simple ritual. It’s a symbol of summer and childhood. It’s a moment of connection with God. For all its simplicity, my moments chasing lightning bugs with Ryder helped me let go of the weight of the world for a while. I was a child again, and whether I knew it or not, those moments were a liturgy of belonging to the God of little bugs that light up the world.

From Ashes

The Thin Space

On All Souls Day, many believe the boundary between earth and heaven grows thin. The ancient Celts actually called this space “thin times,” describing it as a time when the threshold between heaven and earth seemed easily crossed.

Another word for “thin space” or “thin time” is liminal space. Theologian Richard Rohr says of liminal space, “We are in liminal space whenever past, present, and future time come together in a full moment of readiness. We are in liminal space whenever the division between ‘right here’ and ‘over there’ is obliterated in our consciousness.”

As All Souls or All Saints Day 2025 approaches, I find myself longing for the liminal space.  I want to feel close to those who have gone before me.

During this season, I often think of my parents, wondering how close they are to me. I look for a connection between the past, the present, and the future – something that will remind me their spirits live on.

Remembering that the communion of saints surrounds us and upholds us happened for me on September 19, 2025.

On that day, Miller Houston Goff was born. He was one of the estimated 385,000 babies born into the world on that day, but for me, his grandmother, he was the one who drew our family closer to the thin space.

Miller Houston carries the name of his Miller great-grandparents and my father, whose middle name was Houston. He came into the world with the DNA of his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and beyond.

As we held him for the first time, we looked to see if we could catch a glimpse of my Mom or Dad in his eyes, or if there might be a reflection of his Papa somewhere in his sweet face.

We looked at his hair color, skin tone, eye color, head shape, cheeks, and lips, trying to decide which family member he inherited each trait from. Holding Miller was a physical reminder that we cradle the love and struggles of past generations, along with the hopes and dreams of a new generation.

Birth and death remind us that we are a part of a Great Whole. Rohr says, “We carry the lived and the unlived lives of our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents as far back as DNA and genomes can trace them—which is pretty far back. It does take a village to create a person.”

In the weeks surrounding Miller’s birth, our family was also experiencing the sting of death. Miller’s dad, our son-in-law, was mourning the loss of his beloved Papa, who had just died a few weeks prior. On the same weekend that Miller was born, our daughter-in-law was walking her precious Granny home to be with God. The thin space was all around us.

Grief and joy. Death and birth. We have no choice but to experience the cycle of life. How we experience them is up to us. We can be vulnerable enough to lean into the thin spaces, or we can ignore them and miss the healing and joy they can bring.

Miller Houston is a beautiful baby boy with golden hair, deep blue eyes, and soft, rosy lips. When we hold him, he will curl up on our chest, breathe softly on our necks, and we never want to let him go.

In those moments, I feel not only his warm, soft body but the blessing he is to our family. Miller embodies for us the reality that we are connected to those who have gone before us and those who will come after us, reminding us that the connection really is only a thin space.