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In late spring or early summer, along the edges of rivers, lakes, and streams, a quiet miracle unfolds.

The mayfly—after spending one to two years as an aquatic nymph burrowing in sediment, feeding, molting, growing—finally emerges.

It crawls onto a rock or plant stem. Its skin splits down the back. A winged adult pulls free— delicate, iridescent, almost translucent.

It has no mouth. No digestive system. No way to eat.

It has only one purpose: to mate, lay eggs, and die.

Most mayfly adults live less than 24 hours. Some species last only minutes. They emerge in vast swarms—sometimes millions at once— dance in the air in shimmering clouds, pair in flight, drop eggs into the water, and fall spent upon the surface.

Their lives are measured in hours, yet in those fleeting hours they fulfill their entire created purpose.

They do not lament the shortness. They do not hoard time. They do not postpone joy for “later.”

They simply live— fully, completely, without reserve— the brief moment God assigned them.