he fat, translucent orange caterpillar crawled across the back patio. Spying it, my daughter triumphantly captured her prize and displayed it to one after another of the family. Though we had hatched several butterflies over the summer, this one looked different from all the others.
We had captured the striped monarch caterpillars in our garden and observed the transformational process unfold before our eyes. The vivid green chrysalis turned nearly black before it split, and out emerged a wet-winged butterfly. The kids held the new creation carefully, the threadlike legs of the monarch clinging to their fingers. The long, black tongue, as fragile as a spider’s leg, uncurled and we watched with delight as the insect drank our homemade nectar from a cotton ball.
We had watched as each butterfly pumped blood through its wet wings, then rested. Soon they were able to fly, and our hearts soared with them as we released them into the summer sunshine. One of the beautiful insect’s wings was crumpled, and Julie babied along “Heather,” as she named her. Because the insect was only able to walk, Heather spent most of her time in the cardboard box—when she wasn’t being carried around by Julie. One warm day as the kids played on the porch, Heather flitted up and away, and we rejoiced that she had conquered her handicap.
But the unusual orange caterpillar that had just shown up on our back patio particularly arrested our attention. It was late in the season, and cool weather flirted with the waning summer sun. Even if we saved this curious specimen, would there be flowers sufficient to provide for its sustenance when it hatched? We confined it in our canning jar “incubator,” and after several days a brown chrysalis replaced the caterpillar. For several months nothing happened, and eventually I placed the jar on a shelf beside the basement steps.
In the very depths of the February freeze, Julie discovered the chrysalis open and a new butterfly in the jar. With squeals of delight she brought the beautiful swallowtail to me. Soon it flitted across our living room, its iridescent wings catching the sunshine streaming in through the window. Knowing it had no chance to survive the frigid outdoors, we boiled a new batch of nectar and soaked cotton ball after cotton ball—but despite our best efforts, this gorgeous, out-of-season insect refused our offerings.
A couple of days later Julie came to me, her chest heaving with sobs of a broken heart and tears
racing down her cheeks. Our butterfly was dead.
I comforted her the best I could, assuring her that she had done everything possible to try to save the gilded insect. Julie chose a wooden box and tenderly placed the butterfly on the scarlet lining—a lesson in life and loving tucked into her young heart.
Life is a tender trust. We can take it, but we can’t make it. It is a gift. The timeless adage “Teaching a child not to step on a caterpillar is as valuable to the child as it is to the caterpillar” still rings true.
Someday soon there will be new heavens and a new earth. Until then we must teach our children to respect the gift of life, wherever we find it, even in a fat, orange caterpillar crawling across the patio.
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Collene Kelly, a mother of four and an elementary school teacher who loves flowers, gardening, and writing, lives in Arcadia, Indiana. She also shares in ministry with her husband, Ron, who pastors in central Indiana.