Let me tell you a story that I now understand has been used to
help personally push me forward in my pursuit of truth. As I
think back, I must have been about six years old one warm summer
day out in the country. Underneath the tall elm trees, a boy
could find lots of new things to explore at my childhood home. I
still remember goldfinches and a blackbird or two, noisily
gathering in the branches high above me, while I ate my orange
Popsicle. Surrounded by lilac bushes, pines and rock gardens, my
eyes longed to take in more of nature's beauty, while I enjoyed
my cool treat. I loved nature and the outdoors.
Having finished eating, I just happened to look upward to see a
beautiful Monarch butterfly floating slightly above me. Now, I
had seen butterflies before, but something was strangely
different with this one. Dancing on air, as if on a string, this
graceful insect happily toyed with me. As I waved my Popsicle
stick in the air like a swordsman, the butterfly swooped back
and forth at me, enjoying every "swoosh" of our little game! As
this went on for awhile, I could hardly believe how much fun it
was to have this butterfly play with me and to see him dodge
every swing of the stick.
Just then, in the middle of our fun, the wooden stick ripped
through the butterfly's fragile wing. To my horror, he plummeted
to the ground, being reduced to lying helpless at my feet. I
easily could see one of his wings had been torn in two and I
knew the days of flight were over. As tears flowed in my moment
of heartbreak and desperation, I scooped up the little insect
and gently placed him in my red, plastic fireman's helmet, from
our garage. With tear-streamed cheeks I showed my mom the helmet
and its contents. "What can I do?," I sobbed. "Take the
butterfly into our garden and ask God for His help," she
replied. My family hardly ever went to church, but my parents
still believed in God.
Our garden was a good walk behind our house and all sorts of
weeds had taken over this season. While I struggled to push my
way into the garden through the tall weeds, I decided not to go
in very deep. In a strange way, the weeds surrounded me and the
butterfly, like walls of a sanctuary. Kneeling down with the
injured creature still in the fireman's helmet in front of me, I
cried out to God. To this day, I don't recall what I said;
maybe, it wasn't even what I said. I just remember the
child-like faith of a little boy who believed with his whole
heart and could not doubt what his mother had told him. My
swollen, soaked eyes slowly gazed upward to see it happen. That
Monarch butterfly slowly and deliberately walked up onto the
brim of the helmet, stretched forth his perfect wings and looked
at me for maybe thirty seconds. Then, in a moment of triumph, he
took flight, never to be seen by me, again.
Perhaps the release I felt inside of having not destroyed the
beautiful butterfly meant the most to me that day. But now,
while my thoughts retrace the events of thirty-some years past,
I wonder where that little boy went - a child who did not doubt,
but knew God and His ability to make a fallen thing right. Like
the butterfly, that little boy disappeared. Maybe I can still
find him, once again.
About the author:
LC Duplain publishes several websites of spiritual nature,
namely
Angels & Ghosts
