When I was three years old, the rapture arrived at my door. (Note: I first wrote “the raptor arrived at my door,” which would be a way different story.) This rapture came in the form of a plague. Frogs rained down from the sky and landed in my basement.
We lived in a old house in western Michigan, right by a pond. When it rained really hard, the pond would overflow, which apparently sent all forms of wildlife our way. This happened one evening, and a deluge of amphibians was sent on a monsoon-initiated journey to me and my family. It was kind of a Noah’s Ark situation, if Noah had chosen just one species to save.
My memories of this experience are scattered but vivid. I can close my eyes and see flashes of frogs hopping around our basement. I remember trying to put them in buckets, as they jumped out to escape. I can still see them plunge from the tiny basement window and jump around on the concrete floors. In my mind, there were hundreds of frogs filling the space. I have no idea how many there really were and, frankly, I don’t want anyone telling me.
I’d like to think if this happened to me today, I’d find as much joy in it as I did then. It’s really easy to feel overwhelmed by life’s minor disasters, but if you can just laugh at the all frogs raining down on your face, it’s gonna be ok.