The Frog, the Fly, and the Father Who Sees It All

There’s a little fella who lives in a pot on my porch. Jeff says there’s several, and maybe he’s right — but I think I know which one I’m talking to. His name is Buford Slim, and he’s an American toad.

I know — that sounds like a cartoon character or a kid’s book. But he’s not. He’s real.

A squatty, grumpy-looking backyard toad who’s claimed a spot in what used to be my oregano pot. Ever since he showed up, I’ve been careful with my watering — just enough to keep the plant alive, but not enough to flood Buford’s bed.

Meet Buford Slim.

A grumpy-faced American toad who claimed squatters’ rights in my oregano pot and now enjoys VIP porch treatment, water service, fresh towels, and hand-delivered flies — because apparently, this is the Froggy Hilton.

Now, I didn’t invite Buford. He just showed up one day last year like the porch belonged to him all along. And for whatever reason — maybe because he looked like he’d been through a few storms himself — I decided I wanted to take care of him.

And I have. Lord, have I.

I make sure he has water — a little splash in the corner of the pot most mornings, just enough to keep things comfortable.

But I couldn’t stop there.

Once you start caring, it’s hard to know where to draw the line — at least for me.

So last summer, to meet his food needs, I started stunning flies when I’d find one in my office. I know he can hunt on his own — he’s a toad, not helpless — but I wanted him to know I cared. So I’d whack a few flies just hard enough to knock the sense out of them, then march outside and lay them gently by the edge of his pot like I was running a toad buffet.

Sometimes he ate them. Sometimes he didn’t.

But that didn’t stop me from bringing more whenever I could find them.

Poor Jeff. We won’t talk about what he thinks of all these “projects” I take on.

And honestly? If loving a porch toad is wrong, then — as the great Barbara Mandrell once said — I don’t wanna be right.

Lately, I’ve been worried about Buford and the heat. It’s pushing a hundred degrees out there, and he’s gone from hanging out inside the pot… to burying himself deep in the soil… to now just kind of dangling off the side. I don’t know if he’s trying to catch a breeze or just giving up.

So I started brainstorming shade options. This was the actual conversation a few nights ago:

Me: Babe, I’ve got an idea, but you’re gonna think it’s crazy.
Jeff: What is it?
Me: You know my frog — (it’s like Coke in the South: doesn’t matter if it’s Dr. Pepper, Mountain Dew, or Pepsi, it’s still a Coke — same with frogs/toads) — well, it’s getting so hot that he’s not even sitting in the dirt anymore. I think he’s struggling. So I’m trying to figure out how to make a tent or cabana of sorts for the pot. For shade.
Jeff: You’re right. It’s crazy. [Exits the house. Doesn’t miss a beat.]

Guess he’s used to my shenanigans by now.

First, I tried shishkabob skewers and a worn dish towel. Blew away in less than an hour. Then I rigged two tall flower vases and a flimsy piece of styrofoam that came wrapped around a glass I ordered. That blew away too. Found it in my flower garden.

Then it hit me.

Feather Locklear.
Prissy, for short.

She’s a tall metal flamingo I saw at the local nursery and fell in love with last week — but I didn’t want to spend the extra cash. My birthday’s next Tuesday, and when I told Mama about her, she said, “I’m sending you money right now. Go get your flamingo.” ❤️

So I did.

Meet Feather Locklear a/k/a Prissy.

Love at first sight, I knew I wanted her — Mama just sealed the deal.

Now she runs the porch, turns heads, and with the help of a freshly laundered beach towel, she doubles as Buford Slim’s shade tree.

And not only does she bring me joy every time I walk outside — I realized if I scoot her over and drape a beach towel off her back and over the porch rail, she becomes the perfect little cabana for Buford.

He doesn’t have to bury himself or dangle anymore. He can just chill.

I even thought about hooking up a fan. But maybe that’s crazy.

I know — it’s all a little ridiculous.

And a little wonderful.

But it made me think.

I don’t think Buford Slim has a clue who I am.
He doesn’t know I’ve been worrying about him, watching the heat index, or soft-killin’ flies on his behalf. I doubt he gives a single thought to why things are going well for him — he just takes what shows up and goes about his little toad life.

And yet, I can’t help but care.

Not because I expect anything. Not because he owes me.

Just… because he matters to me.
Because he showed up on my porch, and I claimed him as mine.

Every morning, I go wake Otis up and say, “Let’s go check on Buford.”
Otis knows that means it’s time to head outside.

Buford doesn’t mind us ogling over him in the mornings and throughout the day, but I don’t think he’s quite as fond of us at night. Occasionally, Otis has to go out after dark. If it’s early enough, Buford hasn’t had time to fully get off the porch for his night hunting, so he’s usually frozen somewhere on the stairs — probably afraid to move for fear of Otis seeing him.

Only thing Otis sees is his favorite rosemary pot he wants to pee on.
So he zooms right over poor Buford’s head as I’m yelling, “Duck, Buford! Otis is coming in hot!”

I swear I think Buford’s learning. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him actually duck a few times when he hears the warning.

Otis never even sees him.
That poor frog has been run over more times than the speed bump at the Piggly Wiggly.

But in thinking about all this care and concern for one little frog, it occurred to me: isn’t that a tiny glimpse of how God might see us?

We go about our day, completely unaware that Someone’s out there making arrangements.
Soft-killin’ flies.
Providing shade before we realize we’re scorched.
Setting up the exact thing we need before we even ask for it.

All because we’re His.

“Let’s make sure she’s shaded today — she’s been scorched too many times.
Let’s leave that song in her path — she’s gonna need the reminder.
Let’s hold back the storm just a little longer so she can breathe.”

She might not even know I’m the One doing it.

But I love her anyway.

So yeah — maybe Buford Slim doesn’t know who’s been looking out for him.

But I do.

And maybe that’s why this porch — with its flamboyant flamingo and sunburnt toad — feels a little more like holy ground today.

I’m just so grateful for the lessons the Father gives me… right in my own backyard. He truly is everywhere if we just slow down and pay attention.

Sometimes love looks like a beach towel draped over a flamingo.

God shows up in the oddest of ways — even when the one being shaded doesn’t have the faintest clue. He only knows he’s a VIP covered in grace, cooled by terry cloth under the exclusive Prissy Palace Shade Spa, courtesy of Feather Locklear herself… throwin’ shade like only a true Southern lady can.

And this all reminded me about what the Word says in Matthew 6:26:
“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”

Turns out, you can learn a whole lot from a frog, a flamingo, and a faithful Father.