I love nature. Why? My dad. He always pointed out the most beautiful aspects, the parts that the average person would completely miss: the shaft of sunlight falling in a glen of trees, the ripples of a creek rolling over a rock, the gentle buzzing of hummingbird, the curve of a branch or tree trunk, a newly sprouted vegetable in our garden, the haunting tone of a loon calling to another, the hushed thud of snow hitting the ground, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore, the pinkness of a sunset created just for me. He taught me how to walk silently in the woods so we could creep up on the doe and her fawn or the gold finch and his lovebird. Of course, I usually scared them away, but for a brief moment all of us, my dad, the deer, and I, were breathing the same air, breath by breath.
But the love my dad really bequeathed to me was for butterflies. We would collect them in their teenage years--caterpillars--and created a new habitat for them in our aquarium. Tenderly feeding them each day with fresh rue and other leaves, we charted their growth from skinny tubes of insect to plump roly poly adults with bright yellow, green, white, and black stripes. Soon they would start spinning their cocoons on the branches and twigs we provided them. Bright green shells with gold dots sealed them away for the next week or so. We anxiously held our breath as the green became more and more sheer until it seemed as if a very thin film was all the enclosed the black and orange bulge within. If we were lucky, we were present for the next part, but more often than no
t, the final transformation took place overnight. In the morning, we would awaken to see a wet, exhausted butterfly at the bottom of the jar. It had struggled all night to break through its chrysalis, an individual process that could be fatal if someone helped it along. The newborn would flutter its wings violently, drying them off and building up strength. The vibrant orange of the monarch's wings brought me joy every time. Each wing design was so unique; no butterfly looked the same. Such intricate care had painted each one, a creativity only possessed by one Artist.
We had raised our kaleidoscope of butterflies and the fateful day had come: the day of letting them go.
It was so hard to see our friends leave us, but Dad patiently explained why they had to go. "They have new worlds to see. They were meant to fly. It would be cruel to keep them in a jar. Would you want to stay in a jar for your whole life?" No. No, I wouldn't. When he put it that way, I was eager to set them off on their new adventure.
We took the jar outside to the porch, gently set it down, carefully unscrewed the top, and waited. Nothing happened. Why weren't they leaving? Dad tenderly reached into the jar and pinched the wings of a butterfly. Without hurting it, he placed the butterfly on my outstretched finger, where it spread its wings and curiously explored my hand. He reached in for the next one, placing this one on Matt's head which made him restrain his giggles so as not to scare the butterfly away. With all of the butterflies somewhere on our person, we breathlessly waited to see what would happen. Suddenly, a light breeze lifted one up into the air. With new found freedom, it soared across the yard, circled around, and came back to say goodbye before disappearing over the house. Its friends, astounded at their fellow's courage, each caught the breeze in turn and embarked upon a new life.
We gazed in awe at the swirling bits of color, fancying we could see them even after they vanished, wishing they'd come back, knowing they never would. It was a bittersweet lesson, my dad taught us. You wait patiently for something to happen, experience the excitement and glory of it for a short while, and then seek a new adventure. And of course, that was also the joyful pain of being a parent, something we kids couldn't quite understand. For you love the ones you raise, but eventually you must let them go, too.
Now as a young woman realizing all of the implications of the lesson of the butterflies, I am in awe that God can use so many commonplace things to teach His children. For you see, I have dreams that I am raising oh, so tenderly, feeding them with hope and excitement and plans until they become plump and ready to transform into something beautiful. Some of them have already spread their wings and taken off, some are in the cocoon, while some are still crawling around as caterpillars. Every once in awhile I have to let one go for it is complete. The personal glory of success is short, though worthwhile. However, each success has been tenderly painted by the Artist who knows beauty well, and the glory that goes to Him is eternal. I know that one day I will look back on all of my dreams and see a kaleidoscope of color...the beautiful butterflies that have transformed my life into something spectacular and unique. I know this because of the lessons my dad taught me and continues to teach me. It always brings me a certain amount of joy to see a butterfly fluttering around on the breeze perhaps being used to teach someone else another one of God's truths.
"Yesterday's old cocoon will hatch a new butterfly, show me how to say goodbye to the old and welcome the new!" ~Say Goodbye, Scott Alan
"But these things I plan won't happen right away. Slowly, steadily, surely the time approaches when the vision will be fulfilled. If it seems slow, do not despair, for these things will surely come to pass. Just be patient! They will not be overdue a single day!" ~Habakkuk 2:3
