We
only moved a mile away from a place of great sadness to a new home, a place
where we hoped healing lived as well. Four months previous, our oldest son went
home to Heaven after succumbing to a chronic kidney and lung condition. Forced to pack up Tim’s things a little
earlier than I was ready for, the boxes remained closed; memories tucked away
and out of sight. The new house gave us
walls freshly painted and an ordered tree-lined street populated with playing
children—all boys. I pondered the
additional pain of the sights and the sounds.
Summer break left me with more idle time to function, trying to do
ordinary things in a straightjacket of hurt. I slept, cried, prayed, and wrote
in my journal. I felt deeply, I talked
with God continuously, and I mourned.
God, listen.
I
made a discovery of a small park with huge sycamore and pine trees just a few
houses down within my community. The
summer mornings found me awakening at 4:00 A.M. needing to talk with God and
feel my son’s spirit. I grabbed my music
and with my tennis shoes tied, walked out the door to this park. Around and around I walked the path that took
me through the trees, around the pool and through the grassy areas. Sometimes I counted the laps; eighteen,
nineteen, twenty. Other times, I just sang the songs of sweet hope playing in
my ear. All the time I talked to
God. I asked Him all those hard
questions. I told Him all my fears, my doubts, and I poured out my
brokenness. I longed for comfort and a
sign that told me Tim was good, perfect, eternal.
God, show me.
The
sun began to rise from the east. Dark gray, to a lighter gray with a tinge of
tangerine and pinks, the stars still twinkling in the dawn, the trees now
silhouettes of grace. Then I saw them. Were they leaves floating down? No.
They glide with direction, yet carefree. They float with purpose, yet
relaxed. Butterflies. Big yellow and
black Swallowtail butterflies awoke with the morning’s first light to follow my
footsteps. Many flew ahead of me, some
behind, some overhead. This happened
every morning that I walked.
God, delight me.
That
whole summer, when and wherever I allowed my self to go, a Swallowtail
butterfly gracefully flew into my path.
It fluttered into my vision, and angel from God; my son saying “Hi,
Mom.” The second summer after Tim’s
death, I became proactive in a foundation that raises funds specifically for
his particular chronic kidney condition.
Meeting with the coordinator at a restaurant, a butterfly also met us at
the walkway and then followed us up to the entry door. We sat at a table facing
a window. While I ate and made plans for
our upcoming fundraising walk, the butterfly relentlessly flew back and forth
past the window. “Well Tim, I am sensing a happy feeling from
you about what I am doing here.”
God, heal me.
Four
and a half years now, a day does not go by that I do not think about my
son. I await the first appearance of the
butterfly in spring, but it always catches me off guard as I am gazing
thoughtfully out a window, or walking to retrieve the mail. Ministering to my soul, their beautiful wings
dance to a song filled with music of promise--and I am comforted. Like the butterfly, a worm who once crawled
on his belly, barely inching forward, God wrapped His arms around me, held me
tight until I felt OK enough to face the world again, and then let me fly. Seeing His plans all from a different
perspective now, my hope is to ask God to share this same hope with others who
mourn, that their same comfort will arrive on Angel’s wings and a prayer.
God, use me.
Employed
with the local school district, I work as an instructional aide at a high
school. It began as any other day. Spirit Week and Homecoming events filled this
week’s calendar of activities. The news came as I sneaked in a few seconds late
to second period. The stoic calmness of these normally hyped-up 12th
graders for Foods class was palpable. “Something
happened,” I quickly calculated. Indeed this tragic news stunned me as I
gazed upon the heart-broken students sifting the information. A well-known,
popular student and member of both my 2nd period and 4th
period classes passed away in his sleep the night before. I looked over to his chair across the aisle
from my own in disbelief, Ellis’s seat empty. Within another minute, our principal entered
the room and relayed a confirmation. Then, she asked me to step outside. With an encouraging hug, she spoke kindly expressing
her concern for my own well-being.
“I
understand you lost a son and if this day is difficult for you…” she spoke.
“I
am good, really,” as I sniffed and wiped away my tears. “Thank you, but I want to help. Can I
help?”
“Yes,
dear. Come with me,” she instructed.
I
spent the next two and a half hours in a room designated for grief counseling.
I helped spread out butcher paper on tables and dumped out colorful
markers. Water bottles and tissue
arrived along with a constant stream of weeping classmates. They gathered in circles hugging each other,
unable to take it all in. Walking over
to a table, I shared how writing out my thoughts, my memories of my own son, in
a journal, helped me. I handed a felt-tip
marker to a student and asked him to write a note to Ellis. And so it began. Without
going into detail, I shared as a mother who experienced the pain of a son
dying.
“These words you write are precious and a gift
to Ellis and his family; these memories keep Ellis alive in our hearts.”
Nine tables with the tear-stained butcher
paper memorials came alive with colorful stories, memories, song lyrics and
expressions. A group of about eight
girls sat outside the room on a picnic table, mascara stains across their
cheeks, trembling with grief.
“Can
I tell you a story?” I said.
Huh?
What? Not comprehending what I said.
“Can
I tell you a story?” I said again.
“Sure,”
as they looked quizzically to one another.
My
butterfly story, how God sent me angels in black and yellow to guide my grief
walk and how now they bring me a “Hi Mom,” I calmly shared. Within a minute,
these girls were engaged and the sobs softened.
“If
you ask God to help you with your pain, He will. Something will remind you of
your friend Ellis and every time you think of it or see it, you’ll feel warm
inside and remember him with a smile instead of a tear.”
Their
heads now lifted, they thanked me for my story and we shared more hugs. I walked inside the room and found a black
marker and a yellow crayon. A big
butterfly now flew across the butcher paper memorial.
In
II Corinthians 1:3-4, the Apostle Paul tells us, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father
of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so
that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort
with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”
I am eternally grateful for my angel butterflies, a beautiful
creation of God and a gift to remind me of God’s personal love for us all. Sometimes all you need to do is look up to
see Hope.
Coleene VanTilburg
October 28, 2011
