Butterflies
Tuesday, Sept. 03, 2002, 4:19 p.m.

I was scrounging around in my old stories and came across this. Thought I'd record it for posterity... I preceded the fashion trend (which, quite frankly, I doubt I'd have noticed if it weren't for all of this). Oh, this was also written a couple years before I became a Christian. I think I've mentioned it before, but I was quite an adamant atheist.

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Butterflies

“ . . . so what should I do?” I asked, sitting there, staring at her, waiting for . . . what? For her to work a miracle? To instantly fix my whole world with a wave of her magic wand? I honestly don’t remember what exactly I thought or expected at that point, but I know I was sure she had the answer.

She looked at me for a second, sideways, out of the corner of her eye, and then looked away. She was silent a moment longer, and then glanced at me again before she started speaking. “I went to church a couple months ago,” she said.

Now normally, as soon as anyone mentions church, I tune out. I’m not Christian, Jewish, or Mormon. I don’t believe in any of the traditional western beliefs, and I really don’t want to be converted--but this was Jolene, friend, mentor, shoulder to cry on, and confidante. So I listened.

“The minister was preaching,” she continued, “and he said something that stuck in my mind. He was talking about a little boy and his grandfather. The two of them were walking through the woods to get back home, and they passed through a certain section of the forest where there were thousands and thousands of butterfly cocoons. They happened to be passing through at just the right time, and saw literally hundreds of butterflies coming out of their cocoons. They just stood there and watched for a little bit, but after a minute or two, the boy naturally wanted to take one home.

“ ‘Grampa,’ he said, ‘would it hurt anything to keep one?’

“ The old man thought about it for a minute, then said ‘Probably not. But you have to promise not to touch it. It’s very hard for the butterflies to come out, and it may look like it’s in terrible pain, but you can’t touch it or it will die.’

“The little boy promised solemnly not to touch the butterfly when it struggled out of its cocoon and carefully chose one of the little silken sacks to take home, holding it gently for the rest of the walk.

“When he got home, he carefully set down the cocoon and watched it--for two days. He watched it as finally its movements became more and more violent, and a little rent appeared in the silk; he watched as the butterfly within struggled agonizingly to release itself from the cocoon. I promised I wouldn’t touch the butterfly, he thought, but I never said I wouldn’t touch the cocoon! So he pulled a little at the tiny tear until it became larger, and the butterfly tumbled out. He carefully avoided touching the butterfly--but still it died. He picked up the pitiful form in his hands and walked out to his grandfather, crying.

“ ‘I didn’t touch it, Grampa! I didn’t touch it, but it died. All I did was open the cocoon a little. I made sure I didn’t touch it, Grampa!’

“The old man looked at the little boy compassionately for a moment. ‘The butterfly died because you opened the cocoon. It has to struggle to get out of that cocoon, and there’s a reason for it. While that butterfly is fighting to get out, it’s preparing for its entire life. When you tore open that cocoon, it didn’t have to make the chemicals it would normally have to make, and it couldn’t survive without them.’ ”

Jolene stopped speaking and looked at me again from the corner of her eye, waiting for me to understand, to see what she meant. I didn’t understand then, and I think Jolene knew that. She changed the subject, and we really didn’t talk about it much, not then anyway. When I went home that night, I was disappointed, but I wasn’t sure why, so I wrote. As I was writing, I realized something. I’d gone to the meeting that day with the expectation of having the world lifted from my shoulders--oh, certainly, the thought wasn’t formed so specifically--but it had been there all along. The reason I was disappointed was that it hadn’t happened. I didn’t even realize I was asking Jolene to take my responsibility from me, but she knew, and she showed me that I needed it, as hard as it was.

Now, when the weight of my world seems too much to bear, I remember that story and it gives me strength. And sometimes, when I’m too close to forgetting, I’ll wear a butterfly--maybe a pair of earrings or just a simple sticker--and I know I can face the world.

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