Is there anything more peaceful than a summer night?

It’s ironic, because summer days are brutal, sweltering heat stagnant with humidity.  As June and July drag on each year, the temperature here in Arkansas routinely creeps close to a hundred degrees.  Yet when the sun sets, a whole new experience is born—as if these evenings are a peace offering to atone for the sticky days.  They’re dreamy…relaxed…softened…soporific.  

I love to experience the evenings of this season.  As the sunlight drains from the afternoon, the heat dissipates with it, sinking into the ground now fresh with dew.  The scorching sun dies in embers on the horizon, and a gentle breeze begins to whisper around the corners of the trees—a cool, fresh breeze unlike the furnace-blast of the afternoon.  Gathering shadows spin cobwebs of twilight all around the brushy bits of forest where the lightning bugs glitter.  If I watch closely, I can catch the moment when the evening star first lights its beacon near the swinging crescent of moon.  And overhead, between earth and stars, is the squeaking and flitting and zigzagging dizziness of bats in flight.  

All these are the magic of sheer loveliness.  Yet the most unforgettable aspect of a summer night is not the sights, but the sounds. 

When I walk outdoors on a June evening, admiring the stars and feeling the tension of the day release into the forgiving darkness, I am surrounded by a canopy of sounds.  Hundreds of thousands of little creatures all around me are singing, each in their own voice, doing their part to celebrate the season of life and birth and growing.  There are the grumbling of frogs, the hooting of owls, and even, sometimes, the nighttime serenade of a mockingbird awake past its bedtime.  But the most rich and diverse layer of the summer symphony stems from a humble source—the insects.  

It’s amazing, really.  These creatures are tiny, often hidden, yet their voices ring through the night in a chorus.  One of the most impressive examples is none other than the cicadas.  Now, these aren’t the ones that emerge and wreak havoc every seventeen years.  They’re instead a far more innocuous variety, and if you’ve ever seen one up close, you know that they’re surprisingly beautiful—glistening ruby eyes, shining shell of body, filigree-like wings folded daintily.  And if you’ve walked underneath the trees that harbor them, you’ve heard their shrill, incessant song.  According to researchers, it can sometimes reach 100 decibels—the volume of a lawnmower! 

Another common insect with a breathtakingly beautiful contribution to the nighttime chorus is the lowly house cricket.  The “song” of these tiny creatures is actually produced not by using their vocal cords but by rubbing their wings together in a manner similar to playing a violin.  Moreover, their song changes tempo depending on the environment; it’s said that you can calculate the outdoor temperature in degrees Fahrenheit by counting the number of cricket chirps in fifteen seconds and then adding 37.  

These are only two examples of the creatures that grace our summer nights; I wish I had the time to describe all the other insect sounds—the whirring of June bugs, the soft flutter of moths, the shrill pulse of tree frogs, the clacking of katydids.  I’ve grown up on these sounds, and they never fail to bring a smile to my face.  They lull me to sleep and help me relax and transport me to all the woodland places I’ve ever loved.  And until last summer, I assumed everyone shared my affection for this nighttime serenade—but then I had a startling conversation.

I was in Colorado, visiting my beloved Estes Park, browsing a local artisans’ fair.  As I admired the pottery crafts at one booth, the lady who had created them began chatting with me, the usual small talk:  weather, how I enjoyed hiking, where I was from (apparently my southern accent is obvious to everyone except me and thwarts all my attempts to pass as a native Coloradan).  

“Arkansas,” I replied.

“Arkansas?”  She frowned.  “You people have some really loud bugs there.”

I was taken aback, primarily because the volume of local insects isn’t usually my first thought when hearing someone’s place of residence.  However, I attempted to remain polite.  “Well, we do have lots of bugs…”

“No, I mean loud bugs,” she insisted.  She went on to relate a dramatic story of how she had once been forced to take a trip to Arkansas for a few days right in the middle of summer and had heard the sounds of the summer night.  To my complete surprise, the same insects that were so soothing to me were downright painful to her.  “And at night—ugh!  I couldn’t even sleep.  They were so loud, all the time.”  She grimaced.  “They sounded like a chainsaw.”

Like a chainsaw?  My beloved chorus of insect voices was being compared to a chainsaw?  Granted, the song could be repetitive, and yes, it could get noisy—but a chainsaw?  I retreated to the relative safety of restating my previous answer:  “Yeah, well, they can be a little loud.”  (Even this noncommittal reply left me feeling as if I were betraying all my little nighttime friends.) 

The woman just shook her head and laughed.  “I don’t know how you can stand it.  I’m just thankful we don’t have loud bugs like that here.”

Even days after our conversation, I caught myself thinking about her comment…not because I was suddenly concerned that our insect population was ruining out-of-state tourism, or because I feared that I would one day go deaf from listening to cicadas at night, but because I was simply amazed by the woman’s attitude.  It had never occurred to me that someone could be annoyed by something that was, to me, so very beautiful.  

I heard a song; this woman heard a saw.  I reveled in the noise; she reviled it.  What struck me as fascinating was that we had been exposed to the same circumstance…yet we’d responded in dramatically different ways.  

And this phenomenon—same experience, different responses—is repeated over and over in the world around us.  Some people with a disability overcome against all odds and become an inspiration, while others allow that label to define them and sour in defeat.  Some survivors of abuse or neglect develop hearts of fathomless compassion, but others weaponize their pain and lash out at those around them.  And when faced with marital strife, rebellious children, difficult diagnoses, or a demanding employer, some individuals emerge from trials stronger and more mature, but others swell in bitterness and close their hearts. 

So why is this true?  For one simple reason—we hold a choice.  We, and we alone, are responsible for selecting one powerful aspect of our lives—our attitude.  

You see, we are accustomed to viewing the events around us as shaping our destiny, but if we could see from God’s perspective, I’m sure we’d be amazed to realize that our responses create a much deeper footprint.  Our external actions flow from one internal decision—the choice to gaze through the lens of Heaven or squint with our own human vision.  We’ll be looking at the same circumstances…but we’ll see two very different images.

For an example of this principle in action, we need look no further than the model given us by the apostle Paul.  In the opening chapter of his letter to the church at Philippi, he shares his enthusiasm for the growth he’s seen among converts:  “I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12a ESV).  His tone is so exuberant that it’s easy to miss the backstory behind that casual reference:  at the time of this writing, Paul is in prison.  He’s been submerged by an avalanche of distressing circumstances—he’s been falsely accused.  Sold out by his own countrymen.  Deserted by some of his friends.  Watched his court case stall in the system.  Endured a shipwreck.  And now, he is in house arrest, chained to a guard.  

Wouldn’t we consider these crushing, even tragic, circumstances?  Wouldn’t we view this chapter of the apostle’s life as a defeat, a setback, a trial?  Yet even in this difficult situation, Paul chooses to look through the lens of Heaven—he exults that the gospel is being spread!  With joy, he reports to the Philippians that he has used this opportunity to share the Word of God with the Roman praetorian guard—an influential group of ten thousand soldiers whose prestige was second only to that of the emperor himself.  In addition, Paul explains, he’s even reached members of “Caesar’s household”—these can only be people within the emperor’s court and even family.  How amazing!

As I read Paul’s account, his words are convicting.  If anyone had reason for a bad attitude, it was him.  If there was ever an excuse for a pessimistic, dark outlook, it was found in his life.  Yet where we see despair and disaster, he glimpses the hand of God.  Indeed, the indomitable apostle fills this prison epistle not with personal complaints or requests for help but with words of praise, concluding with his now-famous refrain:  “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice” (Philippians 4:4 ESV).   

This kind of thinking doesn’t happen naturally.  A bad attitude is something of an art form for us humans—who knows why.  Perhaps it’s pride—I am wise enough to see the flaw here!  Perhaps it’s fear—If I constantly anticipate bad things happening, I’ll never be caught off guard.  Perhaps it’s distrust—How do I know God’s plans are good?  Perhaps it’s our own insecurities—If I can’t be perfect myself, at least I can try to make everything perfect around me.  But regardless of our motives, we end up in the same situation:  blind and deaf to the beauty.  Pointing out the flaw instead of gasping at the glory.  Hearing the summer sounds as irritating noise instead of a marvelous symphony.  And when we respond this way, we not only miss the moment we’re facing; we close ourselves off a little more to seeing the beauty in all the moments that follow.

That’s why it’s so vital to choose our mindset in the light of Heaven.  You see, we serve a God Who delights in the splendor and wonder and mystery, Who would have His children share His glee in the story He tells. When we practice looking at our lives positively, we open ourselves to seeing things a little more from His expanded heavenly perspective and a little less from our narrow earthly one.  We notice ways that we ourselves can respond in gracious, loving, faith-filled words and deeds.  And when we do that, the Kingdom comes a little bit more—in our world, and in our hearts.  

There will always be a reason to complain.  We’ll never be free of problems to scrutinize.  There will never be a lack of situations that could justly warrant our irritation.  But there will always, always, be much grander and larger and wilder reasons to burst with gratitude.

So on these summer nights, take a moment to step outside.  Focus on what you’re hearing—the songs of thousands of little creatures, each special in their own way, celebrating the life and joy of the summer.  And let their song remind you that silver linings are all around—if we’ll just take a second look.  Then let your praise join the song of the crickets and cicadas…because I believe that they sing to Him too.

Did you enjoy this post? What are some ways you look at your circumstances through the lens of Heaven? Let me know in the comments!

Also, be watching for a special survey I’ll be sharing in the coming days. It’s an opportunity for you to share your feedback on the future direction of Words from the Wilderness!

Lastly, check out this video. As stated by the uploader, “Experimental director, composer and playwright Jim Wilson recorded the sound of crickets and then slowed down the recording, revealing something so amazing. The crickets sound like they are singing the most angelic chorus in perfect harmony. Though it sounds like human voices, everything you hear is the crickets themselves.” It’s amazing how all creation praises its Maker!