Metamorphosis: a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one

I am surrounded by the kindest, most thoughtful people. I do NOT deserve them (Cue Wayne and Garth's "We're not worthy" bit). I am not sure how a lazy, apathetic, unmotivated, negative gal such as myself ends up as the recipient of selfless generosity and constant grace. 

But here we are.

My friend Heidi is an excellent example of this. For the past several years, she has insisted I take a container of caterpillar chrysalises for my classroom so that my students can experience the magical emergence of Monarch butterflies. I am far from receptive of this idea. It's just one more thing that I'm going to mess up. "No, no," Heidi assures me. "We'll do everything." 

And it's true. She and her amazing daughter are there from attachment to emergence. Literally, all I have to do is release the butterflies. It's pretty rough.

This year was particularly magical.

My 4th graders were, of course, enchanted. Wiggly and wonderful...squealing and spellbound...tickled
and transfixed. We sang "Let it go," as our new-born beauties flexed their wings, soaking in the sun before soaring into the air. We were scientists, naturalists, and poets.

It was a Friday afternoon and several green cocoons remained, swaying from their slender silken filaments...two butterflies had emerged earlier in the day but their wet wings required a few more hours of dry-time. Heidi had offered to whisk them away but I asked if I could take them to my mother. Heidi, thrilled to share the results of her summer of meticulous labor...maintaining the milkweed, gathering the caterpillars, feeding them, cleaning up after them, ensuring their solid and study attachments...the container she'd given me was labeled "9" if that gives you any clue to how many butterflies she and Alison release each season.

Like the butterflies, my mother has also been on quite a transformative journey. For the last few years she has undergone many changes, enduring a cycle of unimaginable loss...the death of her beloved husband, leaving her home, plagued by memory issues and confusion. For my mother, moments of joy are fleeting and few.

Heidi's butterflies captured my mom's attention immediately. She admired their beauty...fixated on how frail their delicate wings appeared. I smiled...realizing how very similar my mother was to the very creatures she was inspecting. For some reason (C'mon...we know the reason), our baby butterflies were not in too big a hurry to depart...content to remain with us for awhile...resting on a weathered hand as Mom held her breath, afraid to disturb it. She laughed as one made a hair ornament on top of my head. Froze, statue-still, so I could capture a picture of the orange and black beauty against her lilac-colored slacks. For a moment, my mom was happy. She experienced joy. How grateful I am to Heidi, Alison, and God for that precious occurrence. 

And still, we weren't done. Two chandeliers remained...the brilliant green dimming...darkening and soon, the last two butterflies arrived.

So, Sunday morning, before church, Brad and I both set a butterfly each free...using our morning glory
patch as their launching site. Like before, they lingered longer...their waving wings rivaling the brilliant blooms woven into our vined screen. 

What an incredible gift that Heidi gave us. A gift that I didn't know I wanted or needed...but Heidi knew. And she wouldn't let me say, "No."  Thank you, Heidi.

We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

~LeeAnn Taylor