Speak Eagle

The Butterfly

My 5-year old son is my warrior.  Usually wielding a light sabre or nerf gun, ready at a moment’s notice to take down the nearest bad guy (or his little brother).  The other day, though, I saw his softer side.  We had just flown into the driveway after a crazy, busy afternoon, and he hopped out and headed around the front of the car.  “Mommy!” he gasped, “You almost killed a butterfly!  He’s hurt!”  The warrior knelt down near the front tire and coaxed the injured butterfly onto his finger.

He carried the butterfly to the purple flowers in a pot on our front porch, and there we admired the creature’s delicate markings, the intricate design, and the beautiful colors.  Image

“God is quite an artist!” I told him, as we watched the butterfly regain his strength and flex his wings.  I imagined the divine Artist taking his tiniest brush and painstakingly painting the fine black line around perfect circles, then adding a flourish of orange on wing’s edge.

I watched my son watch the butterfly.  His own beautiful design- dark lashes framing melty brown eyes, that sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, boyish fingers with wrinkly knuckles.  I imagined God, the Divine Artist, using those same magical brushes to create the beauty of my son.

In the play, Our Town, the main character, Emily, remarks how the members of her family are so busy that they don’t even look at each other.  May I remember each day to look at the people in my life with eyes that appreciate the excellent work of the Master Artist, even when that beautiful creature is slaying me with his light sabre.


4 thoughts on “The Butterfly”

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.