Four days ago, I received a butterfly book in the mail from my grandmother. It was a book to record birthdays, and I have a lot to remember. The book was covered with butterflies in lavenders and blues (my favorite colors). What struck me is that a butterfly is born to die within a few days. According to the all-knowing internet, most butterflies live on average one month. The gorgeous wings of a butterfly take hours to unfurl in their vanishing existence. Once dried, they must be in a hurry to flutter to their eternal rest. It is sobering that something so intricately designed would have such a short life span.
Three days ago, I sent a thank you letter to my grandmother telling her how I love butterflies and how on a recent trip to Idaho I discovered some hand-painted feather butterflies in a toy store and purchased some that now flutter on my bathroom wall. These butterflies are the kind made in China, yet will last much longer than the real sort. They remind me of the loving care of my Creator that he would take such attention with me, a transient creature.
Two days ago, the giver of the butterfly book breathed her last and was welcomed into the arms of her Creator. It seemed so sudden, so short even though her earthly years were a month shy of 89. It was as if this beautiful butterfly danced her heart out before the King and was welcomed to hang up her slippers and rest.
I know I was given a birthday book, but the first entry in it will be a death. Because all true living, begins with death. Death to sin. Death to self. Death to the old desires. My Grandmother's birthday use to be in September, but now I think I will mark it for August 15. It was the day she was born to a world where tears will never again wet her face, where her feet will never tire from dancing and where her heart's desires are fulfilled in the Butterfly Maker.
Happy Birthday, dear Grandmother.