After my Mom died, almost immediately, I began noticing the butterflies. It was October, so is that even the right season? Maybe. No matter, there they were. Little yellow ones. Gorgeous blue and black ones. Monarchs. Mostly the small ones, yellow or white, and I noticed them especially at the grave site. Butterflies have traditionally been a Christian symbol of the resurrection, and so I was comforted. Death is not the end. Where, O Death, is your Victory? Where is your sting?
And then I found this wonderful quote in ND Wilson's book Death by Living:
Every soul waits in the wings. Every life taken in age, tired and ready, taken in youth, in shock and sorrow, taken in pain or taken in peace, every needle now hidden in shadow waits in eager silence. I see my cousin. My nephew. Many faces, forgotten by those who followed behind, known always by the Author who needs no stone reminders. He is the best of all possible audiences, the only Audience to see every scene, the Author who became a Character and heaped every shadow on Himself.My parents were planning to retire to a home in Auburn. This past winter, my Dad finally sold the house, and so I went there to remove the last of the items before the closing. I found some especially precious objects to keep: a collection of three brass butterflies that were my mother's, and an exquisite lamp, handed down to my mother by an older relative, covered in rainbow-colored, hand-painted, gilded butterflies.They are displayed in our den, near the family sofa, a daily reminder to me of the Things to Come.
To His eyes, you never leave the stage. You do not cease to exist. It is a chapter ending, an act, not the play itself. Look to Him. Walk toward Him. The cocoon is a death, but not a final death. The coffin can be a tragedy, but not for long. There will be butterflies.