I’m Scared of Butterflies

Deborah Lewis,

“I’m scared of butterflies,” was an unusual statement to protrude from a child’s soul. I observed that the orange, black spotted butterfly danced around the purple succulents on that sun soaked winter afternoon, but never ventured nearer than 10-12 ft. “A butterfly would never hurt you,” came my delayed response.

I savor moments, in the throes of the regular activities of mundane, lackluster days, when an individual will share a transparent glimpse into the depths of their being.

For them, that sentiment may have been shared countless times or perhaps just this once. They may be risking much by giving voice to that fear, pain, insight or memory. When I hear it I am immediately grateful that I was there at that moment in time to experience it. Does a tree make a sound if it falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it? Yes! But how wondrous to watch a tree, that is supposed to stand tall and proud, transition and collide with the terrain of the underbrush that it previously had shaded.

I wonder, as I notice my own fascinations and addictions to hand held electronic devices, will our cultural abilities to listen to each other deeply, intentionally erode over the coming decades?

I hope we strike a balance. I hope we find a middle ground. I hope as a trend we can all find a few trusted friends, or an absolute stranger in our lives to listen to our fear of butterflies, or crowded rooms, or failing. And I hope even more than the courage to voice a secret that the listener will hold the revealed truth delicately and cradle it in their heart. Not as a problem we could possibly fix, or an item that will not survive without our opinion, but as a priceless treasure worth holding for another sojourner on life’s winding road.

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Published by Deborah Lewis

Don't ever give in. Don't ever quit. Don't ever surrender. What gives me the right to say that? Mountains of impossibility that I have walked through: 6 1/2 years of infertility, an adoption that did not go through, two seasons of helping raise other people's children, a miscarriage, paid back every cent of 85K of debt, crisis pregnancy, raising a special needs daughter, the death of that daughter, divorce etc... With every challenge came real wounds, but something else in juxtaposition to the scars: wisdom, and treasure. Real riches found on very broken paths. Some of my closest friends have caught my tears big, wet, snotting up, warm tears, but they have also "seen" the gifts acquired along the way. They have experienced hope in hopeless situations. They have gleaned tenacity in unbearable circumstance. And to be VERY CLEAR this is not because I am strong, very much the opposite. I KNOW how weak I am. Don't give up. Don't give in. Don't surrender. "For we have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on You." 2Chron 20:12. My mom would say, "Shoulders back, chest out!" I would add to that, fix your eyes on the only One who declares, "You are more that a conqueror!"

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