Dear Bugged Ones: 

As many as 1.5 million cicadas per acre emerged a few weeks ago in our region of Illinois. With great anticipation, people dreaded the endless sound of their mating screech. It was amazing how finding a single cicada in the house and courting him outside could fill the air with so much noise. While larger than most bugs, it still seemed to emit more sound than its size could resonate. The crunching sound too—of thousands of exoskeletons littering the sidewalks—created its own fascinating cringe.  

Love them or hate them, they’re now nearly gone.

It will be 2041 when our brood emerges again. If I’m still around, I’ll be 80. The sights and sounds of the 2024 masses will be recalled. I’ll remember I was pastoring a great church in La Grange when I saw them last. While waiting for the trolley back to the home, I’ll regale anyone at the bus stop unfortunate enough to share a bench with me of the great cicada invasion of ‘24. I’ll share the memory of the startled family near the front row being stricken with the spontaneous gift of ecstatic dance after finding one of the critters on a mother’s blouse. I’ll embellish accounts of folks who fled the region, taking precious vacation time to flee to destinations void of the entomological hordes. I’ll certainly recall how Aggi, my beloved dog who by then will have passed, thought the world had become the biggest kibble bowl ever, as she munched her way through morning walks.

My accounts will suffer from compressed memory. As I’ll remember it, the 17-year brood XIII unfolded at the immediate conclusion of a pandemic. Simple checks on timing will reveal the inaccuracy of that recollection, but the romantic remembrance of insects and humans emerging simultaneously from their sheltering holes, casting off their protective masks to be social once again after long in earthed isolation, will be much too poetic to correct. By age 80, I’m sure my current mild tinnitus will have become an oceanic roar, drowning out the next round of the cicada chorus; if I’m around for the experience, I’ll likely miss the noise.

I won’t be foolish enough to attempt a conference lamenting the loss of cicadadecim, our region’s sub-species. But perhaps, with apologies to my high school Latin teacher, Ms. Ryan, a brief requiem is in order:

Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine
Arboribus semper quoniam pius es;
Septendecim annis dona eis, Domine.
Et lux perpetua luceat eis, donec iterum emerserint.

Light eternal shine upon them, O Lord
With the trees forever for thou art merciful,
Grant them rest for seventeen years, O Lord,
And perpetual light to shine upon them, until they emerge again.

[Cue the orchestra and choir.]

Remembering all creatures great, small, and occasional, I remain,

With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor