When the Toads Sing

It’s coupling season!

At twilight in early spring, the woods near our home come alive with a chorus you don’t often hear in the bustle of modern life — the clear, trilling call of the American toad. It’s mating season. What sounds like background noise to some is actually a carefully timed, God-ordained gathering — males lining pond edges, each singing his song of invitation, each female drawn to the voice that seems strongest, surest, most steady.

It always strikes me, standing among them, how quietly faithful Creation is to its rhythms. The toads return to the same waters year after year, emerging from the hidden places they’ve overwintered in, obeying the call to multiply, to fill the earth, to do what they were made to do — no matter who is watching.

Their songs are unapologetically loud — a defiant, joyful declaration of life returning, purpose reawakening. And it makes me wonder: when was the last time I obeyed God’s rhythms with that kind of steadiness? Or sang my small song, even if no one else was listening?

Toads aren’t beautiful by the world’s standards, but they are exactly what they were meant to be — and that’s the beauty. In a world obsessed with polished appearances and performance, I want to remember the toad: unassuming, faithful, full of purpose, and singing because the season says sing.

“The birds of the sky nest by the waters; they sing among the branches. He waters the mountains from his upper chambers; the land is satisfied by the fruit of his work.”

— Psalm 104:12–13

–Flourish