Sometimes he just floats there, at the top of the aquarium. Arms and legs spread wide in a position of surrender, head tipped back so his nose just breaks through the surface. Our frog is crazy. I keep thinking he’s dead.
Everything about him read death.
Poking around the glass, peering this way and that, I tap and shake and wave. Nothing.
“He’s gotta be dead.”
I stare at his beady, unblinking black eyes; watch his smooth, yellow stomach for the slight give and take of life.
“Josh, I think the frog died.”
With a kick of his legs and a splash, he dives under the shelf; gone.
I equate inactivity with death. To be still means to cease living.
How do I reconcile that with God’s commandment to “Be still and know that (He) is God”?