How priceless is your unfailing love!
Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings.
Psalm 36:7
Time held its breath as water skipped down Spring Creek and chipmunks danced across my path. Thee Cabin, built by the generation who survived the Great Depression and named as a tribute to our Quaker roots, shadowed my childhood with simplicity's rapture. In the most magical of moments there, beauty wafted from the sky and lighted on a stick I held. One side of my new monarch butterfly friend was unblemished; the other shredded like the petals of a daisy.
The other day as I walked my youngest two from the car to the park's playground equipment, the brightest blue morpho butterfly I've ever seen fluttered in front of me. As Clara and Carynne ran ahead to jockey for the choicest monkey bar, I stood still to see where my new azure friend would fly. He flew directly in front of me only to land on a steaming pile of dog excrement.
Some of us are monarchs; others are blue morphos.
Monarchs' scars are out in the open. Their wounds are evident. There is no mistaking their messy lives but they still think they have everyone fooled. They try to show the world their good side, their whole side never realizing the shredded parts of their past and present peak through anyway.
Morphos mask their imperfection with right words and flawless presentation. They've walked plenty of dirty paths but they've worked tirelessly to cover their tracks. You'd never know their life stunk unless you got down and sniffed their feet.
I wonder what or who has blemished your beauty.
Are the wings of your life painted with unforgiveness?
Are your antennae constantly evaluating, judging trying to keep you from getting hurt?
Do you fly safely above the surface afraid to ever really land and develop deep, abiding relationships?
When that monarch flew into my life, I spent three days watching, hoping, nudging and nursing. Beauty died anyway.
Whether we tend to deal with our unsavory parts like a monarch or a morpho, one thing is certain, beauty will die anyway unless we flutter under His wing. The shadow of His wing restores. The safety of His wing repairs. From the cocoon of His care we can emerge as a new creation whose blemishes are marks of His grace.
Take a moment and consider how you hide. Are you masked as a monarch or a morpho? Do you dare to fly on the winds of authenticity instead?
