The Butterfly Hunt: Searching for the Real Thing

A story I wrote for my daughters...

“Can you show me again how to draw the wings?” Cassie asked. Ava was the best artist in their grade -- maybe in the whole school -- and Cassie loved it when the two friends could spend time drawing together.

“Sure, Cassie. You do it like this.” Ava reached over, and with careful strokes of her hand she drew large, wide arcs. Soon, Cassie’s butterfly looked real enough to fly away.

“Ava, it’s beautiful! Now I want to color it like a real butterfly. Let’s go outside and try to find one to use as a model!”

Cassie ran to the door as Ava pushed away from the table, slowly guiding her wheelchair towards Cassie. She bumped over the door frame while Cassie held the door open.

“Alright, butterflies, here we come!” Cassie shouted, skipping into the backyard toward the rose bushes nearby. Ava's arms worked the wheels fast to keep up. Something colorful caught her eye.

“Cassie, look!” Ava shouted, pointing at a brilliant purple butterfly fluttering up toward a maple tree. “Did you see it? It was gorgeous.”

Cassie scratched her head. “I didn't see it, but I know how I can!” Cassie began scaling the wooden boards her father, years before, had nailed into the maple tree's trunk. The butterfly had flown right up into Cassie's favorite climbing tree.

Cassie stopped and turned around. “Aren't you coming?”

Ava had a worried look on her face.

“What's wrong?” Cassie asked.

“Don't you know?” Ava said slowly. “I can't climb trees. I can't walk. I can't run. This chair does the work for me, because my legs don't work like yours do.”

Cassie did know that Ava couldn't walk. She had known this ever since the two girls first met. But not until today had it really mattered.

Disappointed, Cassie jumped down. Her plan was ruined. She headed back to the house with Ava trailing behind her.

After dinner that night, Cassie's mom reached over and patted her hand.

“Cassie, will you tell me what's wrong? You've looked sad ever since Ava left. Did something happen?”

Cassie eyes stung with tears. “I think I need a new best friend,” she cried. “Ava is good at a lot of things, but not the things I like to do best. I like to jump and run and climb trees, but Ava can't do any of that. She can only sit in her chair.”

Mom squeezed Cassie's hand.

“I think a real friend is the kind you can share everything with,” Cassie said.

“You know,” Mom said, “you're right about a few things. Ava can't run. She can't climb trees. And she will probably never be able to do those things. But there's something Ava does better than many kids you know.”

“You mean drawing?” Cassie asked.

“No,” Mom said, “something even more wonderful than drawing. Ava loves people, even people who are a little bit different from her. She knows that a real friend cares about you, not because you’re perfect or just like her, but because you’re just like you.”

Cassie swallowed hard, and thought about what her mother said. An idea sprang into her mind.

“Then I want to be a real friend to Ava,” she said, standing up from the table. “But I'm going to need Dad's help.”

After school the next day, Cassie asked Ava to come over to her house. “I have a surprise,” she whispered.

When Ava arrived, Cassie held the backdoor open and led Ava straight to the climbing tree. “Let's hunt for some butterflies, okay?”

Ava looked worried. “But Cassie, what do you mean? I can't climb trees, remember?”

Suddenly, the two girls heard rustling leaves and a strange creaking sound. They looked up to see a wooden chair suspended by ropes, dangling from the branches of the tree. Little by little, the chair was lowered to the ground.

“Have a seat, my queen!” Cassie said, bowing grandly. She helped Ava into the chair. Then Daddy carefully pulled the ropes, lifting the chair off the ground and into the leafy branches. Cassie climbed the wooden steps and met Ava at the top.

“So what do you think?”

Ava looked thrilled. “I love it, Cassie! This is my first time to climb a tree. Now I know why you like it so much.” Then she paused and looked around.

“But Cassie,” she said quietly. “This must have taken so much work. Why did you go to so much trouble for me?”

Cassie looked down at her hands. “Because, Ava, everyone is different. Everyone has things they can and can’t do. Everyone has things they do well or not-so-well. But for real friends, the things you don’t share are not so important; what matters are the things you do share.”

Cassie looked up, and saw that Ava’s puzzled look had grown into a bright smile. It may even have been brighter than the fluttering purple wings the girls spied among the leaves that afternoon.

Susie's Gift

I was beginning to think I might leave impressions in the steering wheel, I was gripping it so hard. My firstborn nine-month-old was in the back seat, bellowing for all she was worth and fighting off the nap she so desperately needed. Correction: that I so desperately needed.

Lydah, bless her little heart, was what might be clinically diagnosed as a not-so-good-sleeper. The night prior she had awakened somewhere in the ball park of 17 times, each time needing a pacifier and a pat back to sleep. Sunday morning came all too quickly. We all scurried off to church and I scheduled Lydah’s nap to take place at the usual hour, between adult classes and the worship service, so that I might be able to join the Land of Adults.

Naptime came … and went. My daughter was making so much noise I was sure we'd created a thick barrier between the worshippers in the next room and the Almighty Lord. So I bundled her up in her car seat and rushed her outside, much too proud to take my husband’s offer to stay while he took the baby. This is my job, I reasoned, and I can do it alone.

I drove circles around the neighborhood, and with of my infant's screams my heart pounded harder and my hands gripped tighter. When Lydah finally conked out I’m pretty sure I resembled one of those red-eyed, fire-snorting bulls of Looney Tunes fashion.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my husband and my friend Susie had been scheming to extrapolate me from that car. Upon re-parking I watched my heroically smiling husband in the rearview mirror dash out from the church, probably to tell me he adored me and appreciated me and just to generally give me some love. But I think he must have taken one look at my Looney Tunes impression and decided just to give me some space, because he immediately turned around and ducked back inside.

But Susie was stubborn. She marched out, yanked on the passenger door, and climbed in.

A word about this friend of mine, who was more than just a friend, more than just our pastor’s wife: Susie was the sort of person who told me what was on her mind and on her heart, even if she was feeling down or discouraged or just plain hormonal. And transparency like that is contagious; Susie felt so comfortable being “real” with me that I naturally felt comfortable doing the same with her.

So when our apartment got flooded with cockroaches, I had called Susie to vent. When a friend hurt me with a cruel remark, Susie was there to comfort me. And when I was at my very lowest and cruelest, Susie listened – just listened – without saying a word, knowing that in the silence Holy Spirit would convict and provide answers.

And in this moment, she was shining. Still gripping the wheel with both hands, I poured out to her all of my current frustrations – the sleepless nights, the naptime battles, my inadequacies as a mother. The last thing out of my mouth was, “This child is such a burden to me!”

Those final words, harsh and un-true, hung in the air like a cloud of cigarette smoke. But Susie, a devoted mother of three, didn’t correct me. She didn’t scold me or remind me of all the women in the world who would love to be mothers, but couldn’t. She didn’t point out that a child not napping was preferable to a child dying of cancer. Or promise me the truth: that in one year my child would at last sleep like the proverbial baby.

Nope. Susie just sat there in that steamy car and waited until the storm blew over.

My greatest mentors in life haven’t been the best advice-givers. It hasn’t been so much what they’ve done with their mouths, but about what they do with their ears. Susie had a most un-profound gift: she listened to me, and didn’t judge me. But in a very profound way, she reflected the patient, relentless, enduring love of my Savior, a gift I could never pass up.

Aromatherapy

It's the largest bottle I can find – the good stuff. Name brand and chemically altered to smell like fresh laundry on the line. “Linen Fresh,” the label promises.

I only hope it does the trick.

Weaving through the pews, I empty my can of air freshener in the fashion of a deacon swinging his golden censer. The fragrance scatters and settles, along with my whispered prayers for the people who'd sat there that morning. Lord, rescue Carmen. Have compassion on her. Bring peace to her home. Bless Lilly, dear God. Give her new hope and a reason to go on. Help Jermaine. Oh Jesus, help him. Free him from the chains of addiction.

It had been a full house that Monday morning, like most. Over a hundred people had packed out the sanctuary for a worship service they were not obligated to attend. My neighbors could have easily sat outside and basked in the cool April weather, but they chose to come indoors, to sing hymns together, to read the Word, to hear it proclaimed.

Immediately following the service the numbers on their tickets were called. In groups of five they filed down to the church basement for a special rendition of the Lord's Supper: plastic bags filled with expired bread items, dented soup cans, unlabeled jars of applesauce, and last week's fried chicken. These are the items a small church can afford to purchase by palate from a food “recycling” center. They are piled high on greasy tables, sorted and bagged by the lucky few who had arrived at daybreak that morning to be handpicked from a queue. Tubs of lunch meat and a few extra rolls of toilet paper posed as a paycheck for their labor.

Before the crowd dispersed, the pastor held her hand to the sky in benedictory fashion, calling out, “... 67, 18, 43, 38 ...” as a lucky few were randomly chosen to receive a “sweet-box.” Inside this special box, one might find stale doughnuts or boxes of cupcakes too crushed for any store to sell. Today a grinning woman named Miss Penny had rushed to the door, her winning ticket raised in the air, and asked if there might possibly be a birthday cake in one of those boxes. Her grandson was turning three, she explained, and she wanted to throw him a party. When a drippy-iced cake was placed in her hands, Miss Penny oozed with gratitude.

By noon the entire service is over. The sanctuary is cleared of bodies, but left behind is a stench that hangs low in the air and pierces the soul. It is the smell of alcohol and marijuana and cheap cigarettes. It is the smell of stale urine, soiled diapers, unwashed hair. It is the smell of sweaty children whose homes do not have running water. Of men who house all their belongings in duffel bags. Of teenage girls who sell sex so their pimps can have cash to buy drugs to lure more teenage girls.

It is the smell of old scabs that refuse to heal over.

The product in my hand promises to eliminate the most powerful of odors, but that's not exactly what I hope to do with it. Like the women who woke up early to perfume the broken, crucified body of Jesus, I see my work of spraying down the sanctuary as an act of worship. In the same way brightly colored banners adorn the walls, and the harmony of piano music fills the air, and the carpets are kept vacuumed and the pews freshly oiled, I want the air in this holy place to be soaked in beauty, in cleanliness, in hope. When my neighbors step into the church next week, I want them to inhale something besides the odor that clings to their bodies. I want them to sense a resurrected Savior, even through their noses.

I've completely emptied my can of air freshener today, so I will go to the store this afternoon. Maybe I will choose a new scent this time: Vanilla-Lavender Comfort or Springtime Renewal. Maybe Rainy Meadows to match the weather outside. Whatever the scent, I'm okay with paying a few extra dollars for the name-brand, big bottle.

As long as it's the good stuff.

How to be less-than-perfect without really trying

She had four – count FOUR – young sons.

I’d brought along just the two daughters.

She was splashing amongst the toddlers in the kiddie pool, pretending to be a quacking duck and a spinning windmill.

I was hiding amidst the lounge chairs with a Reader's Digest, wishing my girls would stop inviting me to play.

She kept a perfectly sweet pitch to her voice at all times.

I was having trouble not rolling my eyes when my younger pled for the tenth time, “Look at me, Mom!” while jumping in the water.

Then this random stranger really outdid herself. She turned and gave her full attention to my daughter and said, “Well, look at you!” with a huge, warm smile.

Suddenly, I wasn't annoyed with Happy Homeschooling Mom-of-Four anymore. I wasn't thinking about her at all. I was thinking about me. What's wrong with me? Why can't I just drag myself out there and play with my kids? Why don't I have the energy and patience to be present with them in this special moment? Why am I such a loser?

Fortunately, before the flood of guilt totally engulfed all sense of reason, I was rescued by the truth. Which is this: I usually am that perky lady in the pool. Most days I'm the energetic one, the one who plays on the floor with her kids, the one who draws other people's kids into our games. Perhaps I’m even the perfect mom other moms find annoying.

But today I wasn't. I was a second-rate, maybe even third-rate, mother. I was lazy, tense, and a wee bit selfish with my time. On this particular overcast day at the pool, I just wanted ten minutes to myself. Was that too much to ask?

Every good mom is a bad mom sometimes. We might prefer to spend our bad-mom days at home, out of the keenly observant public eye, but we don’t always get to make that choice. Days like these seem to choose us. And while calling a sitter or huddling the kiddies in front of the TV is perfectly understandable, there are a few other ways to ease the scorch of a bad-mom day. They will require some will power and a little bit of work, but thankfully, these options involve no regrets.

Stop Comparing Yourself

If you spend time looking for her, there will always be a mom out there better than yourself. But keep in mind that you – and only you – are the one your kids adore, and nothing will change that (except, I am told, adolescence). Know that your perfection doesn't teach your kids much about how the real world works. However, when they witness you struggle through your imperfection, and make right choices anyway, you give your children a real-life example to learn from.

Be Honest

Clearly and calmly explain to your kids that you really need some quiet time today. Older kids will especially appreciate your transparency and may even take the lead on entertaining the younger ones. Children yearn to show you how responsible they are, but rarely get the chance when they have Miss Perfect for a mom, toiling and fretting to make life equally perfect for them. If being honest doesn’t work …

Wait ‘Em Out

Your kids will eventually get the idea that you aren't a playmate today, and, crazy as it may seem, your absence won’t kill them. Remember that the reason they're begging you to play is because you're usually so attentive and present with them. So hey, take their annoying-ness as a compliment to your parenting!

Dip Your Toes in the Pool

When all other options are exhausted, you may have to make this choice – like I did, quite literally. I couldn’t snap my fingers and change my mood, nor could I avoid being disappointed in the change of plans. Instead, I had to take things one step at a time, one task at a time, one big toe grazing the surface of the cold water before I could ease in my whole tired body. Sometimes bad moods can suck us into a place that is hard to crawl out of, but our little ones give us the perfect reason to try.

And here's the beauty behind these small hurdles overcome: sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes the very act of making a few small, right choices is enough to change the trajectory of an entire day. And before we realize a change has taken place, we have become our whole selves again – the selves we like. We are wading and splashing and singing and laughing – maybe even spinning like a windmill – and the sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds.

Your Beauty is so God

Great Friend, we haven’t talked in so long and I can feel it in my core.

I’m a piece of rotting fruit without you, a decaying corpse without you,

A compost pile that isn’t composting into anything except brittle little bones.

But when we talk, when we swap stories and share laughs, but mostly

When I sit enamored by your beauty and breathe deep your bare-earth smells,

And when you allow me to nestle into you and just linger there, warmly,

I become new again. Free and New. Loveable – to myself and to others.

When I sit still and buckle my butt to the seat, I find that I’m flying –

Not just drifting – but quite in control of my direction.

When you speak to me I am somehow able to hear more completely

the words of others, my own included, with clarity and compassion.

When I see you dancing in the shadows of maple leaves, resting your

Magnificent self on the cloud-lined shelves between the sky and sea,

Or lifting off the earth on the wings of a dozen Canadian geese,

I am stilled. I am renewed by a sense of wholeness, of oneness with you,

Of how very precious these moments are.

Pretty, Pretty Please

I have two daughters. One is self-motivated, eager to please, and rarely needs discipline. The other is self-absorbed, free-spirited, and spends a good part of each day in time-out.

I can identify with the plights of both my daughters. In high school my biggest concern was how to fit in, how to draw the least attention to myself, how to make the right people like me. I didn't need to be told to do my homework; I did it because I didn't want to be part of the dumb crowd, and of only slightly more importance, I wanted my parents to be proud of me. But there's a part of me I've more recently grown into: the I-don't-take-crap-from-nobody self. Perhaps because I've been hardened by the trials of life, or maybe because I'm all the more wiser for them, I'm much more prone to do the things I want to do unencumbered by others' expectations of me. I tend to think of me first, and therefore spend a good part of each day in time-out.

So as I strive to purposefully mother my children, keeping in mind their personalities and inclinations, I struggle. I struggle because I don't know how to keep my eager-to-please daughter from idolizing others, from pinning her heart to her sleeve, from feeling guilty and being driven by shame. I'm equally clueless about how to make my self-pleasing daughter notice other people and their feelings. While she's much less likely to be somebody's doormat someday, I'm concerned that Little Miss Free Spirit is fueled by what feels good at the moment, regardless of the consequences.

But it occurs to me that the people my daughters want to please – namely, others or themselves – are only, after all, people. And if I've learned anything in my twenty-nine years of life, it's that people always, always, always let us down. People are cruel, they tell lies, they break promises. And if we're really honest with ourselves, the cruelest, most lie-telling promise-breaker is the boy or girl in the mirror.

As a general rule, people cannot be trusted with our hearts.

But the other thing I’ve learned in the last twenty-nine years is that my heart is safe with the one who molded it and shaped it in my mother’s womb. My earthly mom may not have been able to prevent my every heartbreak, but my Heavenly Mom is able to pick up the pieces with me, to completely deliver me from the stuff life throws at me… or I throw at myself.

Yes, this Mother can be trusted, and She is so worth the time and trouble I spend trying to please Her. This is the wisdom and knowledge I want to impart to my daughters: don’t waste your life on you. Don’t waste it on others. You’ll be so much happier trying to please a God who is thrilled by the mere fact that you want to please Her.

I love how Thomas Merton puts it. He prays:

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.”

I can’t save my daughters from their personalities. I can’t save them from wanting something that might hurt them. I can’t even save them from seriously screwing up their lives. So my goal is this: to introduce them to someone who will not only save them, but will perfectly love them despite their faults in a way I cannot. I pray with my daughters, and read them Bible picture books, and sing songs with them that are old and kitschy – I do all this to place them in the lap of the Mother I cannot ever be. I want them to know Her: a God who will love them always, always, always.