L
ike many of you, I have a great love for butterflies.
These winged wisps of artwork, delicate as they are, flutter from blossom to blossom, from country to country. Who could ever imagine they once crawled about the earth and miraculously transformed into an expression of beauty for our unending pleasure! So you can understand how I react each time I spot a butterfly in our sunroom, battling to break through the glass, trying to reach its freedom. Its death soon follows because of an invisible killer lurking–insecticide sprayed on the window sills by our bug man. It’s in our valid pursuit to reduce the annoying insects, not butterflies.
Some survive. Some don’t. However, recently one particular butterfly taught me a lesson which made me think of many of you. You, too, are probably in the midst of a battle. Maybe it’s for your health, or a loved one’s. It could be for healthy relationships. Some of you might be struggling for freedom from the world’s grips or from your own. Some are torn by the loss of a treasured life. Yet, even in our deepest pain, we can find God if we’re looking. That day I held a most resilient butterfly, who like so many of you prove: “Greater is He that is within me, than he who is in the world.”
By Ann Elizabeth Robertson In a window sill in our sunroom, I spot A butterfly in still life rest. Lifeless, it was on the poisoned rim Meant for horseflies and wasps, My ongoing war against things that sting, Not butterflies, never butterflies. Why is the good often punished for the bad? Jiggling the key in the deadbolt, I race To gain entrance into this realm. Don’t let me be too late, I pray. What if I am too late? I pray. Into my hands I scoop this form, This lovely thing, but feel no flutter. Lord, give me flutter. Black velvet wings with mosaic patterns Flatten wide on my palm outstretched, Jaggedly torn wings frayed by life, Cats’ claws, holly leaves, wriggly pests Nature’s pinking shears, tearing, testing, Whether the innocent survive when poisoned and torn Whether wings allow flight or rest in death’s quiet morn. Wings rise, then fall, in rhythmic breaths, Wings rise, then fall, strengthening still. Up then down, to lift and lift higher, Fiber-strong, cleansed, empowered, Surprised I stand in reverent awe how Tattered butterflies do fly, Not with the ease of the un-fringed ones, mind you, but with serrated wings of eagles. What if we lived our whole lives–our earthly lives–and never realized the fullness of God’s love, thinking we are too damaged, missing His true love for us? As tattered butterflies, we must end our struggling and fly in the face of beauty. God will strengthen us to surmount our trials because He can, because He will. Wherever you are, live richly and fly free. 44 Your Hometown Magazine