This Easter seemed to be a bit of a letdown
as I drove to church. Of course, maybe that was to be expected since Good
Friday marked the ninth anniversary of Jim’s death.
I was bummed because I was going to
Easter at the Matthewson alone. I love the years when my kids and grandkids go
with me, but this year everyone had other plans. My sister-in-law had planned
to go with me, but she called Sunday morning to let me know that she couldn’t
go either.
Once I realized I’d be going by
myself, I thought about not going. But since I had already taken my shower and
had my clothes laid out, I decided to go solo.
Driving time is thinking time for
me. So driving to the Fairgrounds, I found my mind wandering to the ghosts of
Easter’s past. I thought about Dorothy’s famous Easter cake that she always
sent to the employees at the Coop. It was a fluffy white cake topped with
coconut “grass” beautifully decorated. I thought about my mother-in-law,
Virginia, fixing a huge Easter feast and inviting everyone in the family. Easter
was a big deal with Easter dresses, Dinah wearing her Easter hat, laughter, music,
and dozens of little ones filling baskets with eggs.
I thought about Jim and when our
kids were little, ready for church in western shirts I had made for them,
complete with pearl snaps. It seems like a different world, a different me. I
can’t believe I had the patience, or time, to sew those little shirts. I
thought of school plays, baskets, family, spring flowers, butterflies, the days
when April was a time of rebirth and not a time of sorrow and death. All these
thoughts left me teary eyed as I suddenly found myself longing for the happy
Easters of the past.
I pulled myself together, and parked
my car as directed by the people assigned to the parking lot. Our church puts a
lot of effort into Easter at the Matthewson. Normally, our church has different
services at two different locations, but on Easter everyone comes together and
invites the community to join us. It is always an uplifting, spirited service.
A giant cross was rolled inside and kids
with butterfly wings swirled and swooped on the stage and down the aisle. Pastor
Jim asked us to turn on our cell phones and hold them up in remembrance of
loved ones. He said to send the message that “God is alive.” We sang songs,
celebrated the rebirth of our Savior.
During the message, Pastor Jim said
a few words that really touched me. Not relying on my memory, I typed his
thoughts on butterflies into Quick Office on my phone. You can’t put wings on your back and pretend to be a butterfly, and you
can’t have wings and continue to crawl.
When you think about it, butterflies
begin life as a lowly caterpillar, crawling around searching for food. Their
lives are totally boring, mundane, as they eke out their very livelihood by
eating the leaves beneath their feed. They mature through stages called instars
all the while filling themselves with toxic substances that stick with them and
protect them from predators once they become adults. Through metamorphosis, the
homely caterpillar emerges as a stunning butterfly and begins life anew.
Butterflies don’t crawl anymore, they flit around showing off their colorful regalia
while they feed on sweet flower nectar.
Butterflies symbolize rebirth. In
ancient Greek, the word for “butterfly” means “soul” or “mind.” In other
cultures, butterflies symbolize love, long life, transformation, animal spirits,
celebration, good luck, spiritual evolution, or a sign of God’s favor.
To me, the butterfly symbolizes
hope. I believe that no matter how low I might be at times, or when I think
about what might have been, the butterfly promises that the days ahead will unfurl
moments of breathtaking beauty. No pretending necessary—just spread those
butterfly wings and fly.
copyright© April 2014 by L. S.
Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
No comments:
Post a Comment