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I knew a man who walked across states and continents, and then settled in Tennessee to write about his travels. In a state with four seasons. He wrote how with each new season he felt he’d been given a new personality.

I agree. Every season brings out qualities that remain dormant the rest of the year.

Have you noticed, though, in the middle of those seasons and in the in-between-times there seem to be micro seasons? Little snippets of time that don’t at all resemble the current season.

Like Indian Summer. Not really summer, but not quite fall.

And now, this season of green and season of wet. Which only happens when rainfall levels are high enough to make creeks run and rushing water fall over precipices to come crashing onto boulders below.

And the frogs come.

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From where, I don’t know. Or how – I’m  clueless. But with the California drought these past couple years, I have missed the water and the frogs. The serenade of tiny creatures hanging out at the local swimmin’ hole, croaking in perfect harmony after the sun goes down and the stars make their debut for the night.

While most evenings this time of year, deep in winter but not frigid, the hills turn green and the ground is damp, and this thing called dew appears on every blade of grass each morning. The landscape is transformed!

My days are usually spent indoors, writing and working with windows closed. But if the bathroom gets steamy or the woodstove gets too hot, I open the window a little to clear the air. And when I hear it, my attention turns to what lies beyond the house and in the creek. I push open the window further and stand there listening – to the music of almost springtime.

I looked up why the Egyptians worshiped frogs: The frog was a symbol of life and fertility, since millions were born each year after the Nile River filled, bringing growth to land that was barren most of the time.

Where and when there is no water, we don’t hear the frogs. Not in our creek, not in the creeks on friends’ property, not in the pond off an old dirt road by the 1800s family cemetery.

But in the evenings, frog concerts during this season in-between remind me of the gift of rainfall and the biological cycle taking place right in my own backyard.

I can’t help but think of the spiritual analogy of water giving life to tiny creatures that sing their praises and announce their presence, whether anyone listens or not. They were given life and they spend their brief time on earth doing what they were created to do.

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Some humans keep their windows closed to the frog chorus. But not me. I am enthralled – just as I would be in a great concert hall for the performance of a renowned symphony. I stop, and I am still. And I listen. And let the music carry me away.

A frog symbolizes life. In his dependence on water, we’re taught a great lesson and an eternal truth. And in the music of almost springtime, my senses are stirred with the reminder that winter’s bleak days cloaked in dormancy won’t last forever. Not here on earth and not in eternity.

For where there is moisture, there will be flowers and grass and hills of green, and ribbons of water gurgling in crevices between one hill and another, mid pastures and ranchland and rocky cliffs and kid goats and newborn calves, and sometimes patches of fog, under January’s dappled sky of fluffy white and endless blue.

Frogs aren’t smart in the truest sense, but their instincts tell them to search for water. And once they find it, to stay there. For it is their life.

We humans should be so smart. To seek the water of the Word and once we find it, to stay there close by, camped out, singing praises to the Creator and of the Creator, and letting all who hear know of His goodness.

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Springtime’s coming. It won’t be long now.

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