One day in late summer I walked down the packed dirt driveway to our cabin on 2.8 mile Gilmore trail. Along the banks there were a million little wings, all black and white, moving in freakish rhythm. They were magic. I skipped and a bunch of them took flight. Realizing the potential display I began to run and was greeted by a parting of the moth sea. They took off in rank, one after another in tens of thousands. It was as if I ran into God’s world and was surrounded by His messengers. These were not normal moths and this was not just a chance encounter with insects.
A common moth wouldn’t move with magic. It would sit there on your ceiling as an annoyance or flit around in your closet while you swatted the air at it for the kill. No, these were God’s moths, sitting on the crumbling dirt bank waiting for this six year old soul to stroll along this late afternoon to speak. This act was just for me.
They spoke. They let me know there was enchantment about. I felt lifted up and out of everyday cars, trucks, cowboys, and Indians. The painful divorce between my parents, my sense of angst related to the constant readjusting to mom’s house, then dads, then step dad and step mom; it was all behind me. I was one of the butterflies; a free thing that belonged in God’s house now and none other.
Here I am in Seattle on a 10 hour layover tweaking domains, answering email, working on funding policy, and decided to sort out my blog. Rummaging through my old files I ran across this reflection. I remember the day as if it just happened. It was one of those crystal clear moments when God speaks through unlikely experience. Thirty six years later and still, the God of the butterflies still talks.