There they lay. All twelve of them. Backs down. Feet up. I had killed the crickets. Jodie Croaker, our pet toad, would go hungry that night.
As I started the van, turned on the heat and began to head for home, my five-year-old Kristi asked for a visitation to the deceased, so I handed the plastic bag to her. “Yep, they’re not movin”, she said.
But scarcely a block had passed when her heart rang out with joy. “Wait, dad, I saw an antenna move! … There’s another one … and another! Turn up the heat dad. I think they’re just cold.”
Sure enough. By the time we got home, our dozen seemingly dead critters were happily hopping around inside the bag.
It made me think. Do I look like those crickets to God? Not moving and seemingly dead? I don’t want to look that way. Turn up the heat Lord. Enliven me to feed this hungry world.