Sixth-Generation Butterflies

It's late summer, and the miracle of the monarchs is set to begin again. The sixth generation is being born.

Every year, far to the south in Mexico, the monarchs begin to stir themselves from their winter sleep, and start to fly north. Each generation of butterfly flies a little further north, breeds, and dies. Their average lifespan is about eight weeks. Slowly, each progressive generation moves north, until they arrive in Ontario in early summer, just as the milkweed plant is beginning to emerge.

Four or five generations live and die. But then the sixth generation hatches.

And these butterflies are different. They don't live and breed and die in eight weeks. Instead, they fly south. Traveling at speeds of about 20 kilometres per hour (on a good day), they will travel distances of up to 80 kilometres a day, for days and days and days, until they have flown nearly 5000 kilometres all the way back to Mexico.

Hundreds upon thousands of butterflies will brave storms and cold, high winds, high wire lines, open stretches of unfriendly water, predators, and starvation as they flutter their way south.

Look closely. The clover is full of butterflies feeding before they tackle the crossing of Lake Erie.

They have no idea where they're going. They just go. And these fifth- or sixth-generation butterflies don't die after eight weeks. They fly all the way to Mexico, live four or five months through the winter, and then, in the spring, start the journey north once again.

The monarchs have always amazed me. Especially the sixth-generation monarchs stir my heart. To do something so amazing. To stand out so remarkably in my generation. To be part of the generation that "takes the land", so to say . . . oh, but that would be wonderful! Every fall, I think about the butterflies, and I wish I could be a sixth-generation butterfly. To do something beyond the standard hatch-eat-breed-die-in-eight-weeks. It sounds so visionary, so victorious, as I stand on the shore and look out over a stretch of wild, open water, with the winds whipping ferociously across the waves, and I realise that if I commit to setting out, away from the safety of the sweet clover on the shore, there will be no turning back, and I am afraid to go. It sounds so grand and glorious, but I'm not sure I have what it takes.

But I realised something this year that I've never really thought about before. Sixth-generation butterflies don't know they're doing anything special. They're simply doing what they're created to do. They are following the call of their Creator to fly south. Day by day, mile by mile, wingbeat by wingbeat, they are simply obedient. Not visionary, not victorious, not grand or glorious, but obedient. And their wonder is seen only because they are obedient to the end. In the ups and downs, in the bright sunshine and sweet clover, in the wide, windblown expanses of the open waters, they are obedient. They have have no idea that they are so amazing. They have no idea that a slip of flying tissue paper has no business flying across the Gulf of Mexico, or across a Great Lake. They have no idea that fragile wings are not up to the task of flying up to 5000 kilometres. They just do it, because God has called them to the task.

But they do do it. They fly. They beat those tissue-paper wings against winds that would blow them off course. They gather in clusters to fight off the cold. They dodge the predators. It's not an easy journey to which God has called them. They have to fight every wingbeat of the way.

But because they struggle inch by inch, because they are such unlikely travelers, because they are obedient, they become a miracle. We are amazed. We watch them, hold our breath, hardly able to imagine that they can survive. They do something hard to imagine, and we admire them.

And maybe that's the answer. Maybe it's not in the visions of grandeur, but in the day-to-day obedience that the miracles happen. Maybe it's in the everyday struggle to remain faithful to the task of that day that God's glory is shown. Maybe the land is taken because unlikely travelers remain faithful to the end to the call of their Creator, despite the opposition thrown against them.

And if that's the case, then maybe I can be a sixth-generation butterfly.

On Being Not-a-Mother on Mother's Day

I am not a mother.

When moms gather together and exchange birth stories, or nursing stories, or baby stories, I have nothing to contribute, except, perhaps, second-hand stories.

I have never been awakened by a squalling child at 12:00, 2:00, and 4:00 night after night after night.

I don't know what it's like to walk around permanently sleep-deprived.

I've never heard a child call me "Mommy", except by accident.

I've never watched my child sleep at night.

I've never sat up worrying, waiting, watching for my missing teen-adult-child to come home at night.

I've never watched my child make foolish, heart-wrenching, God-forsaking choices.

I am not a mother.

I am reminded of that often throughout the year. "You don't get it. You're not a mother." It's not meant in a harsh or cruel way. It's just a fact. It's true. There are things that I don't get, because I'm not a mother. I haven't had those experiences. I can understand in a generic sense, but I don't understand from personal experience. I can imagine, but it's just imagination. For 364 days of the year, everyone realises this.

And then comes Mother's Day. And suddenly, the whole world seems to want to pretend that I am a mother. They want to "include" me.

But I am not a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am an aunt. I am a friend. I am a teacher. I am a mentor. I am all these things. They are good and honourable and God-honouring roles, all of them, and I am honoured and privileged beyond measure to carry those roles. I love dearly the roles God has given me. But I am not a mother. And Mother's Day is not my day. Pretending it is changes nothing. Tomorrow, everyone will go back to reality.

Let's face the fact: Mother's Day is exclusive. It excudes every woman who does not have kids, and every person whose mother has died. The day is called Mother's Day, not Women's Day, not even Like-A-Mother's Day, and while I am a woman, and may even be like-a-mother (although I'm not sure about that) I am not a mother. My horse doesn't count.

And let's face the fact: Mother's Day is painful for many people. If I was not a mother but wanted to be, the day would be painful. If my mother was alive but absent, the day would be painful. If I had horrific memories of my mother (thank God I don't), the day would be painful. I don't think that having people tell me that this day is for me, too, would make the day any less painful. I know, in my heart, that this day is not for me.

It's not my day. I'm not a mother.

Is that such an awful thing?  Is womanhood defined by motherhood? Is my value defined by my reproductive genius? Am I only worth celebrating under the umbrella of "motherhood"? Am I only of value insofar as I can mimic motherhood? Hardly. My roles are important. My nieces and nephews need me, not to be a mother, but to be an aunt. My students need me to be a teacher and a mentor. My brothers and sisters-in-law need their sister. My mom needs me to be a daughter. My friends need a friend. Those roles are precious and valuable and unique. They are worth celebrating, not under the guise of "motherhood," but in their own right.

And what about the fact that Mother's Day is painful for so many? Is that such an awful thing? Why do we try to make it less painful by attempting to somehow include those who are not included? If motherhood is important enough to have a day to celebrate it, then the loss of motherhood is important enough to grieve, deeply and keenly. Isn't it? Grief is a good and healthy thing. It indicates the loss of someone who is or is supposed to be special, important, treasured. Someone worth celebrating. Someone like Mom.

Motherhood is worth celebrating. It is also a unique and precious and valuable role. No one can completely take the place of a mom. Others may fill aspects of the role, but they will never fill the role completely. "Like a mom" is not "mom". Motherhood is special.  So let's celebrate it.

So what if some of us cry? Tears are part of the celebration. Why can't we see that?

And so what if it doesn't include me? I'm ok with that. Why aren't you?

Boxful of Memories

I met them in 1998. It was a rough start. I was broken, hurting, distrustful, and angry.

They were kind.

And courageous.

They'd hooked a fighter. They could have cut bait and run. Instead, they fished. I'm pretty sure they weren't even planning on fishing, didn't even know they had a hook in the water. God, in his almighty providence, knew better.

That was 17 years ago. A lifetime ago. A world away. Letters, emails, cards, Facebook messages ago. Much coffee and many tears have flowed in those years. Much laughter has rung out. I have healed and grown and learned to trust and love. They have prayed faithfully and faithfully fished to land this fighter.

Last year, suddenly, shockingly, appallingly, she died. Suddenly, without any surprise, with greatest joy on her part, she went to be with the Lord she loved more than anything on this earth.

I miss her prayers. I knew, always, no matter what, that she prayed for me. I knew her prayers were gritty, real, no-nonsense conversations with the Almighty. I felt her prayers. And I miss them daily. I miss her.

This past week, her husband emailed me. The man with the searching blue eyes that saw right through my facades and pretenses and refused to be intimidated when I blustered. He baptised me in a lake in God's country. He remained steady when my world fell apart. He showed me I had value and was worth fighting for. He encouraged me to drink my coffee black. I never did get that far.

He emailed me to tell me he was moving. He was packing up, and found a box of letters - all the letters I had written over 17 years. Every one of them saved.

So we met at the Tim's where the three of us had so often met. How many memories those tables hold.... How many cups of coffee we drank there.... We shared one last cup of coffee. We chatted. It was good to catch up. He gave me the box. He gave me a hug. He told me he loved me. And we got into our cars and drove away. He had to finish packing. I had to go visit my nephew for his birthday.

I may never see him again.
I might, but I may not.

All that was left was a boxful of memories and the faint smell of his cologne on my sweatshirt where he hugged me.

And I thought, That's it? Just like that, 17 years is over? Just one small box to encapsulate 17 years of some of my biggest memories, my most overwhelming moments, my deepest changes? It's not even a big box.

It was hard to imagine. I felt like there should be tears, but my eyes were dry. My throat was tight. My heart ached. I didn't know what I was feeling. All the memories in a box.

I was driving down Guelph Line from the 401 toward Burlington. There is a place where you come out of the trees at the top of the escarpment and a panorama lies before you. On a clear day, you can see the CN Tower, a distance of at least 30 km as the crow flies. It is a massive view. (I screengrabbed this from Google Maps.) 

I haven't seen that view for a long time, because I don't come that way much anymore, and it caught my breath.  Oh, Lord, what a view, what a beauty, what a joy! In the midst of all those conflicted feelings of sadness, missing loved ones, wrestling with how it could be that what felt like such a significant relationship to me could somehow be distilled to a box of letters and a lingering scent which was quickly fading away, in the midst of all that, the world lay before me, majestic and beautiful and so very much in God's hands. I drove past the cemetery where my father is buried, and there was no pain, only a soft sadness for what had been, what never was.

And driving into that view, past those memories was when I knew that 17 years can never be distilled into the contents of a box. We are not simply getting into our cars and driving away in opposite directions never to see each other again. Even the grave cannot change what was, what is. Because knowing them has changed me.  And time, distance, and the grave cannot undo that.

That view used to terrify me. It was so big, with city stretching from lakeshore to horizon in every direction. All those people. All those millions of people. I was lost in that swarm, insignificant, invisible, unseen by even God himself. I always felt, standing at the top of that view, utterly exposed with no place to hide, and utterly unseen. I could not drive by the cemetary without feeling soul-crushing pain. Regret. Loss. Emptiness. I saw no beauty in that view, in that drive, only despair and hurt.

But not anymore. Now I saw breathtaking beauty and immense love. Now I felt seen by a Faithful Father who will never lose me in the crowd. Because knowing them has changed me. It's a change that can never be encapsulated in a box. It is a change that will last long after the smell of cologne fades from my sweatshirt. It is a change that will remain across time and distance and even the grave. It is the good work that my Saviour began in me, using them, and He will carry it on to completion.

I miss them. I think I will always miss them. I think that's normal and good.

But our relationship is far more significant than a boxful of memories.

God used them to change my heart.