I REJOICED WHEN the cicadas emerged in spring of this year. My family moved to Georgia 13 years ago, missing the periodical cicadas here by a few months. This year, trillions of cicadas from two different broods emerged across 17 U.S. states. It was the first time since 1803 that those broods’ 17- and 13-year cycles were in sync. Some see them as nuisances or pests. I marvel at them. Before this year, I hadn’t heard the distinct song of Magicicada trecidem, a member of the Great Southern Brood whose droning wail prompted worried citizens in South Carolina to call the police on male cicadas for their lovesick racket. Some days I heard the constant blare as a lament for all the wickedness in the world; other times I took it as a call to prayer. Maybe that is what prayer is: bemoaning the horrors and tuning into a God who cares about everything from nations to Magicicada — and listening to a God who cries with us.
One Tuesday evening my husband and I walked with our teenage daughters to a blueberry bush undulating with cicadas at various life stages: Brown nymphs crawled along stems or slowly began to burst through their shells, while others dangled like white berries on the vine. Cicadas with fresh papery wings filled with color and shape right before our eyes. Some rested on leaves, adjusting to life with wings. A few hung dead from the branches; after all that work, for some reason they didn’t make it. We took photos and videos of these red-eyed insects, hoping our lenses could capture even more than our eyes could perceive. The bush was not on fire, but it felt like hallowed ground.
Cicadas don’t enclose themselves in silk cocoons or hibernate; theirs is a gradual metamorphosis. Usually, for 13 or 17 years — climate change is impacting their cycles — they drink from tree roots, go about their lives in darkness, and travel no more than about three feet. They molt underground a few times until the warming soil triggers them to crawl into the light. Suddenly, their skin no longer fits, and it is time to fly. “We will not all die, but we will all be transformed!” Paul wrote, attempting to articulate Christ’s mysterious impact on our physical and spiritual bodies (1 Corinthians 15:51). It takes cicadas about 90 minutes to pulse and writhe into their winged selves.
The next Sunday morning we gathered outdoors for silent Quaker worship. Beneath the sound of lawnmowers and the chorus of birds was the steady hum of cicadas. After worship, a friend shared how grief has hollowed her out. I placed my hand in hers, knowing nothing I could say or do could fill that hole. After a heavy silence, I mentioned how much our family has been delighting in cicadas. Was I wrong to share joy over insects? That joy was also hers. She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag of cicada exuviae she’d gathered from the woods. We passed the delicate shells around our circle — a paper-thin sacrament.
Researchers in China found small cicada sculptures in the mouths of the dead in ancient Han dynasty tombs. They’ve been interpreted as symbols of resurrection, a promise of life after death. Cicadas also point to promise in this fleshy life. A promise of life after life.
Josina Guess is a Sojourners associate editor and a contributor to Bigger Than Bravery: Black Resilience and Reclamation in a Time of Pandemic.
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