“It’s not just about the bugs. It’s about us. We’re supposed to be more sensitive. To be more like Hashem”

Experience: Clueless camper

Classroom setting: The Hartman Y Day Camp in Far Rockaway, New York

What I learned: G-d cares about bugs, too

Summertime in Forest Hills, New York, was always marked by the musical jingle of the Good Humor ice cream truck, endless rounds of stoop ball and running bases, and — most magical of all — the nightly firefly hunt. We’d marvel at this elongated bug that carried its own illumination, flew upright, and hovered in place, still enough to land on our fingers. It even had a cool official name: lampryidae. With black-brown wings, an orange head, and a glowing bulb at the bottom, the firefly was the VIP of backyard wildlife.

The typical summer evening in Queens was muggy, not that the heat really bothered us kids, and it was better than being indoors, because who put on air conditioning besides when company came to visit? We would sit on our porches on Loubet Street (we weren’t old enough to leave the block on our own), waiting in anticipation. The sky slowly darkened, shades of light peach and soft orange morphing to darker crimson, purple, and then finally, pitch indigo. And all the while, we’d peer straight ahead, excited to catch that first glimpse of bioluminescence.

IT

would start with one isolated blink of light as the day waned.

We’d catch a glimpse of a glimmer to the right. Moments later, to the left, two or three at a time. As twilight descended, the bugs’ lights were more visible, until the sky was finally dark and you could clearly see the yard-full of intermittent pinpricks of light, a silent orchestra of design climaxing in the crescendo of a firefly display on in full force.

But you could spot fireflies even before it got very dark — and when there were enough clusters of lights to warrant our efforts, someone, usually me, would break the silence.

“There, there are tons!”

That was our cue to leave the porches and head out into the dusk.

“Don’t forget your jar,” I’d remind Joey and Marie Marolla, who lived on our corner.

We were a motley crew; besides Joey and Marie, we’d often be joined by the Locks — the only chassidish family on our street and probably the entire Forest Hills — as well as Paul Potast and his siblings, and Alvi and Maria, a Filipino brother and sister duo.

Some of our friends came with just a cup, running around with one hand covering the top so none of their loot would escape. Others brought pint-sized Chinese takeout food containers (or quart-sized, if they were confident). But my brother and I had the most coveted container of the group — a Bell canning jar with holes gouged through the top to help those buggies breathe.

The race was on to see who could catch the most light-emitting beetles.

I’d extend my hand in a slow swooping motion, not unlike encouraging an animal at the petting zoo to eat from your palm. I’d cup my fingers so the bugs couldn’t escape if they tried retreating in the other direction — not that they were so fast, but all they needed to do to thwart my attempts was dim, or as I liked to say, “unlight themselves.”

Until… success! I would close my fingers lightly around the bug, gently drop it into my jar, and quickly secure the lid.

Eagerly and perhaps a bit greedily, we gathered what we could. Before long, I’d have a jar full of little tiny Tinkerbells, the more the fairy-er, and later that night, I’d place the jar on my nightstand, where they would illuminate my room from their perch next to my bed.

O

ne day, I decided to take my jar of fireflies with me to camp. I sat on the bus with the jar on my lap, and I noticed the bugs’ lights were dimmer — but I figured they were just harder to see during the daytime. Besides, weren’t they nocturnal? Maybe they needed some sleep.

I walked into camp beaming with pride and firefly flair.

“The Queens bus made it. We can start davening. Who wants to be chazanit?” my counselors Rifky and Chaya announced.

As I sat with my glowing jar, Rifky came over.

“Wow, that’s quite a collection.”

I basked in her comment for a hot second — until she added, “I wonder if it’s an issue of tza’ar baalei chayim?”

Um… come again?

My parents, not exactly affiliated, had sent me to this frum camp to get a dose of “real” Jewish life. I knew the basics — Shabbos, shofar, that whole vibe. But tza’ar what now?

Rifky and Chaya gently explained that the Torah teaches us to avoid causing pain to animals. Some opinions hold this also applies to bugs — even glowing ones.

I blinked.

“But do we know they feel pain? Or trapped? I mean, they’re just….”

“It’s not just about the bugs,” Rifky said. “It’s about us. We’re supposed to be more sensitive. To be more like Hashem.”

Later that day, I realized how like Hashem my counselors were at that moment, not shaming me for my lack of empathy — or frankly, knowledge — of this halachah. They just imparted the information matter-of-factly, with zero judgement and lots of compassion for how hard it might be for me to part with my beloved and hard-earned collection.

Despite my reluctance — and the undeniable bond I felt with my blinking, bottled friends — I went outside, opened the jar, and let them go. It was a minor act of chesed, maybe, a small gesture toward being the kind of person who cares about the underbug. To this day, the sight of a firefly reminds me that we are supposed to imitate Hashem’s sensitivity and compassion. And it’s all because of a pair of counselors who were careful of tza’ar baal Chaia.

Chaia Frishman is an educator, business owner, writer and improviser in Far Rockaway, New York.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1070)