A fluttering throng of brown flitted so quickly my eyes couldn’t focus on any one of them. As I stepped closer to the river’s edge, toward a space of overturned dirt, my breath caught. Hundreds of wings erupted into flight.
I’d never observed so many butterflies in one setting, and I’d never seen this type of butterfly. They didn’t seem to seek out flowers. Maybe bugs. My mind spun with questions. Where did they come from? What kind of caterpillar had they been? How long would they live?
Later at lunch, we turned the corner from an outdoor garden to see a large bush full of flowers–its leaves seeming to come to life. But, no, butterflies. Bigger ones. Black and iridescent blue. And these liked the blooms.
I marveled at their masses. Just. So. Many. I filmed them. Took pictures. And simply took in the sight of them.
The mystery of metamorphosis moved in a rhythmic dance before me. How beautiful they’d become. And by no effort on their part. As caterpillars they feasted on what God had provided. Then obediently allowed themselves to be cocooned, seemingly dead–but merely asleep–a season of preparation that would burst forth in glorious new life.
Oh, that I would surrender to such rhythms, trusting my Creator to feed me and lead me. Believing that every step and stage and season held promise of the new person I’d become.