I love the sounds of spring.  

They’re so beautiful, and there are so many of them.  I’m thinking of the gentle swish of breezes through papery new leaves.  Or what about the warbling songs of birds just returned from their sojourn in warmer climates?  And I can’t forget the soothing patter of equinoctial rains or the low growl of distant thunder before a spring storm.

But of all the sounds of spring, the one that truly symbolizes this season more so than any other is the chorus of the spring peepers.  

Perhaps you’ve never heard the peepers, or perhaps you’ve heard their song but didn’t realize from where it originated.  They’re a tiny member of the tree frog family, barely an inch long.  Their coloring is a drab brown—designed for camouflage—and they have excellent climbing abilities, thanks to unique gripping pads on the soles of their feet. However, despite their aerial prowess, they seem most content on the ground and spend much of their time there. 

They prefer to be near standing water, and that’s why I often hear them most strongly near the fields just down the road from me, where a pond and surrounding ravines boast all the comforts of home from a peeper’s point of view—still water, abundant algae, tall water plants, and moist ground.  Last fall, these tiny frogs burrowed deep into the slimy mud and hibernated all winter, protected from hypothermia by a natural “antifreeze” compound in their bloodstream.  But now it’s spring, and they’re coming back to life.  And part of their resurrection is their song.  

The song itself is rather repetitive—a cross between a click, a call, and a whistle, repeated up to twenty times a minute. Only the male frogs sing; it’s their way of attracting females during the spring egg-laying season.  As the season progresses, the song does also, increasing in strength, intensity, and speed of repetition.  Upon researching this phenomenon further, I was fascinated to discover that the single loud chorus I hear in the spring is composed of hundreds of individual trios—groups of three frogs singing in concert with each other.  By knowing its role within its own trio, the frog becomes a perfectly synchronized part of the larger whole.

The science behind the peepers’ song is fascinating, but it’s the song itself that charms me.  I hear it on warm spring nights, when dusk is soaking into the rejuvenating earth.  As sunlight dies, the peepers come to life, their song floating over the swampy fields and the greening hills, the sprouting trees and newly built birds’ nests.  It’s a song of life, of renewal.  And it gets into my soul somehow, and it releases something there that’s been held prisoner all winter long.  The song of the peepers, you see, is the song of rebirth.

The peepers’ song affects me so strongly that last spring, I became seized with the desire to see a peeper, to meet one of these minuscule musicians face-to-face.  Unfortunately, I discovered that was easier said than done.  Despite their operatic prowess, they are shy little creatures.  A single step toward their bog, I learned, was enough to silence them all as effectively as if an invisible mute button had been pressed.  In whatever corners they were tucked—under leaves, amongst the grass, half-buried in the mud—they would wait, no sign of their presence, until I reluctantly backed away.  And then the song would begin merrily again, as if nothing had happened.

Yet still, I wouldn’t give up.  And finally, I thought I had my chance.  

It was about mid-March, and I was in the woods behind our house, gathering loads of brush and building them into a massive pile to be burned.  Just to the left of the site where I planned my future fire was a marshy area flooded by recent rains.  And as night approached, I heard the song of the peepers, right there beside me in that bog. 

As I’d done before, I tiptoed toward the site, moving my body an inch at a time, determined to give no sign of my presence.  Yet the peepers’ mysterious faculty for sensing possible danger prevailed.  As I inched closer, the song stopped.

Frustrated, I was about to back away when a new tactic suddenly burst into my mind.  What if I crept up to their hiding place and stayed motionless?  After a time, wouldn’t they begin singing again?

I didn’t know, but I resolved to find out. 

Slowly, I lowered myself to my hands and knees.  The bog was only a few feet away, but with the care I took, I spent several minutes arriving there.  I slithered forward an inch at a time, until I was right at the margin of the water and the mud.  I crouched forward, focusing on the border of short grass around the water.  And I waited.

For several minutes, nothing happened.  I remained perfectly motionless.  So did the peepers, wherever they were.  My position was awkward and mud was slowly soaking the knees of my pants, but I refused to budge.  

And then it happened.  Just inches in front of me, I saw a tiny flicker of movement.  At the same time, the sharp “cheep!” of a peeper rang out.  

I concentrated on the spot, and then it came again.  The “cheep” and the motion.  So quick—so small—but there was something there.

At last, in the lowering dusk, I realized what I was seeing.  A tiny frog, the size of my thumb and as brown as the marsh, was peering up from among the grass stems.  He was so small—so still—that I would have never seen him if I hadn’t been so close.  About three or four times a minute, he was singing.  And when he did, his throat pouch expanded in a great bubble of song, then collapsed again.  That had been the movement I’d seen.

Now that I knew what to look for, I was suddenly conscious of peepers all around me—little frogs on every side, singing in unison.  I could see their glistening eyes, their upturned faces, their white throat pouches expanding.  I didn’t notice the mud any more, or the strain on my wrists, or the fact that my feet were falling asleep.  There in the dusk in the mud with the peepers, I felt as if I were a part of their song—as if somehow I too had joined with them, and together we were bringing spring back to the land.  Part of me wanted to laugh with glee, because I’d found them, at last!  And another part of me wanted to cry, the hushed tears of suddenly finding oneself, without warning, in the middle of a miracle.

Now this spring, when I was brainstorming topics for this blog, the peepers kept showing up, kept dancing around the edges of my mind.  And when I think of the peepers, I think of that special moment.  But this is the odd part—I don’t have anything profound to say.  There’s no earth-shattering lesson to be learned here.  That moment wasn’t a grand epiphany for me or a life-changing event or the spark that ignited a great revelation.  Even as I wrote this blog, I argued with myself:  I knelt in the mud and watched frogs.  How is that anything to write about?  But I couldn’t shake the sense that it was important for this story to be told.

And the longer I considered it, the more I realized that perhaps the lack of seeming significance is part of what makes it so very important.  Nothing amazing happened—and maybe that’s just the point. 

Maybe the lesson is simply this:  things don’t have to be big to be meaningful.

It’s Kodak moments and gigantic milestones that get all the attention, sure.  We assume they’ll be life-changing.  We pin our hopes on them like medals on a hero.  We view them with a certain sense of awe.  My wedding will start a whole new life for me.  This promotion has changed everything.  Attending that worship conference is going to rekindle my walk with God.

Certainly, those big things can be meaningful.  And there’s nothing wrong with having expectations.  But you see, God isn’t the God of only the big things.  He’s also the God of the infinitely small.  The same God Who created the roaring oceans also lovingly fashioned the tiny peepers.  And it is sometimes in those small moments, those moments when we aren’t expecting Him, that He unmistakably appears.

My evening with the peepers wasn’t a big event.  It wasn’t a fireworks occasion.  But it was intensely meaningful.  And it reminded me of something—all around me, all around us, small yet brave and beautiful things are happening.  I’ve been blessed in my lifetime to see a handful of amazing miracles, but I know that there are thousands more that I’ve simply overlooked.  

These small miracles are no less powerful than their major counterparts.  They’re not as glamorous.  They’re not as well-attended.  And they’re painfully easy to ignore.  But when we pause to notice them, they forever change our perspective.  That’s because in the dry-dust of the ordinary, they are the jewels, glittering in the dirt.  They are the meeting place where God’s finger touches our lives in a special and irreplaceable way.  

So why do we often miss these moments?  If they are so valuable, if they are so impactful, then how are we passing them by?  It’s because of one simple reason:  they are special, but they are not spectacular.  We’re not expecting them.  They show up in the strangest of places, and we rush by, intent on our own agenda.  We don’t have the time, or we can’t muster the patience, or we never thought it would be that important anyway.  If we truly knew what we were passing by, we’d drop everything to experience the miracle, but we simply don’t realize.  

I’m reminded of the disciples on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24).  As these two followers of Jesus left Jerusalem, they had to be feeling defeated.  They were headed home after a heart-wrenching weekend in which their Messiah had been crucified.  And as they walk the road, Jesus joins them. 

The road from Jerusalem to Emmaus was about seven miles in those days, give or take.  We don’t know if Jesus traveled the whole distance with His friends or joined them somewhere along the way.  But even if He only traveled one mile with them, they should have been able to recognize His Presence.  This was Jesus—their Lord, their Savior, their teacher, their friend! 

Not only that, but He’s talking.  He’s telling them all about Himself, sharing the Old Testament prophecies that point to His death and resurrection.  As they accuse Him of being callously unaware of local events, He gently reminds them of the power of God’s promises.  

By the time they reach their home and invite Him to spend the night with them, we as the readers want to reach through the pages of time and shake these two.  What is their problem?  Isn’t this painfully obvious?  Here’s Jesus, right beside them, and they don’t know!

But before we pass judgment—before we roll our eyes and wag our fingers—let’s remember how many miracles we’ve passed by.  We’ve heard a bird song, but had no time to search out the little creature who made it.  We’ve seen our child’s face, but we’ve had no patience with his endless questions.  We’ve felt the tug to pray for a stranger, but isn’t that awkward?  

We’ve all walked that road to Emmaus.  

I told you I had no life-changing message to relate today, and I still don’t.  But I believe God does—if we’ll just watch for it.  So today, let’s try to find those tiny miracles.  Let’s be willing to be patient.  To be quiet.  To silence ourselves and cover our assumptions with humility.  Let’s be wiling to kneel in the mud, if we have to, and focus on a dusky corner of a swamp.  Because God is always speaking.  Sometimes He speaks through a frog half the size of my thumb.  Sometimes He speaks through a serendipitous patch of sunshine.  Or a smile from a friend.  Or a beautiful sunset.  But His unexpected, undeserved miracles surround us always, as simple yet lovely as the song of the peepers.  And when we find them, wonders always await.

Did you enjoy this post? What “mini miracles” have you found in YOUR life? I’d love to hear in the comments! Plus, check out this link for more information about spring peepers.

Also, EXCITING NEWS!!!! April 1 marks the one-year anniversary of Words from the Wilderness, and I want YOU to celebrate with me! Don’t miss the exclusive Facebook party at 7:00 p.m. CDT on April 3! I’ll be live answering your questions, sharing some stories, and giving a special gift to all attendees. Check out my Facebook page for more details!