I grew up along the Ohio River, where summer nights glowed with lightning bugs and childhood felt endless. In those fields, with jars in our hands and mud on our legs, we learned something sacred about wonder, and about ourselves.

The foothills of the Appalachians rolled gently into the water, and the river moved slow and wide, its surface catching the last traces of daylight like a ribbon of gold. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet scent of honeysuckle, mingling with the earthy perfume of damp soil and riverbank clay. Time didn’t rush us then; it waited, soft and still, wrapped in the hush of crickets and the low call of mourning doves.

We didn’t call them anything fancy, just lightning bugs. They came with the heat and the hush, when the sky faded from orange to violet and the porch lights clicked on one by one. We didn’t need toys or tickets to feel rich, only a mason jar with a punched-out lid and the freedom to run barefoot through the grass. The fireflies floated up like sparks rising from the earth, blinking between the weeds and the walnut trees, lighting our path without a sound.

Barefoot, breathless, and half-wild with wonder, we chased them. Our skin was sticky with sweat, our knees dusted with clover and dirt, and our hair clung to the backs of our necks. We ducked beneath low branches and leapt over creek beds, laughter trailing behind us like ribbons in the wind. Sometimes we caught one and cupped it gently in our hands, peeking through our fingers at the glow inside. Other times we just stood still and watched, spellbound by their quiet rhythm.

I didn’t know it then, but we were making ties that would last a lifetime. We were binding ourselves to cousins, to grandparents, to the land, and to the slower rhythms of living. The ties of childhood don’t always look like what we expect. Sometimes they look like grass stains and river mud. Sometimes they smell like wild mint crushed underfoot. Sometimes they blink in the dark and dare you to follow.

Years have passed since I last chased a lightning bug, but the memory glows as brightly now as it did then. Those same flickers feel like a thread back home. Back to the banks of the Ohio. Back to the sweet ache of simpler things. Back to when my faith was just beginning to root itself in the ordinary holiness of quiet Appalachian nights. The kind where the stars felt close enough to touch, and the only thing louder than the insects was the laughter rising from the porch.

Now I hear they are disappearing. That light pollution, pesticides, and progress are dimming what once lit up the fields. And maybe that is why I feel this ache, because the fireflies are more than just insects to me. They are memory. They are a tether. They are proof that even the smallest flicker can cut through the dark and call something deep inside us to life.

So tonight, I will turn off the porch light. I will step outside barefoot, feel the cool earth between my toes, and look toward the hills that still cradle the river. And if I see even one, I will whisper, “Thank You.”

For the light. For the wonder. For the ties that still hold.