To Be a Firework

Standing and staring at a black sky with some guy breathing down my neck.

That is how the night begins.

Not with wonder. Not with awe. Just with sweat, waiting, and someone who seems completely unaware that personal space exists.

I try to scoot closer beside my family and find some level place to stand on this old wooden deck. Every board creaks beneath another shifting foot. The humid air clings to my skin like an extra layer I never asked to wear. The crowd murmurs with that strange mixture of excitement and impatience that only comes from waiting for something that is supposed to be spectacular.

Every few seconds I hear another firecracker take its little whisp into the sky, only for the sound to disappear into the thick air. It feels like the atmosphere itself is swallowing every attempt at celebration. Maybe if the air had been a little more dry, everything would have sounded sharper. Maybe everything would have felt more alive.

Instead, I wait.

Man, what is up with this guy? Does he know a thing or two about personal space? Every time I shift an inch, he somehow shifts the same inch. We have become unwilling dance partners in the most awkward choreography imaginable. And can they actually pick up the pace with this supposed firework show? I huff and I puff while my dopamine receptors roll their eyes. I pull out my faithful companion, my phone, and check the time for what has to be the ninety ninth time. Surely more time has passed than the screen tells me.

The complaints begin to stack up. It is too hot. There are too many people. The deck is uncomfortable. The show is taking forever. Nothing is happening. Somewhere along the way, I realize my attention has become completely owned by everything that is wrong.

Then I hear that same familiar whisp.

I almost ignore it. I even begin another complaint before the sentence has a chance to finish itself. But then I see it.

A bright orange and red tail cuts through the darkness, swirling across the sky as if the night itself had picked up a paintbrush. It climbs higher and higher, asking sound to become sight.

Complaint turns to gaze.

Chaos finds its frame.

Complacency turns to grace.

The tail blooms into a multitude of Crayola lit flames that spread across the heavens like joy remembering its own name.

I stood there on that wooden deck, still and sane, and I had this tingling sensation that I very well might be me again. Not the impatient version. Not the distracted version. Just me. Present. Watching light dance across a black sky.

Sometimes I wonder how much of life I miss because I spend too much time staring at what is missing instead of what is unfolding right in front of me. The fireworks did not suddenly become more beautiful. The deck did not become more comfortable. The humidity did not disappear. The guy behind me probably did not move an inch. The only thing that changed was where my attention rested. Maybe that is where peace has been hiding all along.

They say you are not you when you are hungry (Who wants a Snickers bar?). That feels especially true when you are hungry for peace and the only thing feeding you is a disease called complacency. It convinces you that nothing is enough. That every blessing is ordinary. That every delay is unbearable. That every inconvenience deserves more attention than every miracle.

As another burst of light painted the sky, something inside me cracked open. It felt as though the chains on me were finally free, and I could think of ten thousand reasons why I should be.

I should be here.

Breathing this air. Standing beside these people. Laughing with this family. Watching these colors bloom into the darkness.

Cheer should flow through my veins and twirl with that fire induced flame. I should boom as I make room for the heavy laden saints at my table. I should gaze at souls with the same awe and delicacy as a snowflake. Every person carries a story. Every heartbeat is a quiet miracle. For goodness sake, it is those simple things that take us back to sacred simplicity.

To flame.

To echo.

To fire.

To twirl.

To shine.

Every firework exists for only a moment. It rises. It burns. It dazzles. Then it disappears. Yet somehow those brief flashes leave an imprint far longer than their lifespan. Maybe that is what we are called to do. To illuminate without demanding permanence. To bring warmth without expecting applause. To shine because that is what light was made to do.

Oh, to be a firework.

Not because fireworks last, but because, for one beautiful moment, they remind everyone looking up that darkness was never meant to have the final word.