I Can't Help the Butterfly

It was the third time she told me she was thinking of coming home.  It was not as she expected; college life on an athletic scholarship was not the dream she envisioned.

Oh, she’s plenty tough and can hang with the best:  maxing out in the weight room, two-a-days, lack of sleep, and cramming for exams in the super fast-forward summer school classes.

But every team she had every played on came with it’s share of friends.  Not this one.  These were all the athletes who had the drive and ambition, stamina and pride to take them this far.  These were the athletes who didn’t need anyone else.

My girl, it turns out, is not the cookie cutter athlete.  Nope, God cut her from a different mold completely.

Yes, she is driven and has ambition and stamina.  And this girl wants to win more than most.  She can look at a scoreboard and be at the losing side of game point and down by ten.  And still, she will give it her all; never say die.  That’s my girl.

But this girl also loves “team.”  She develops those deep, true, loyal sister-like frienships that take time.  Time, sadly, had not been built yet.  But when you’re 18, instant is an expectation.

So when I hear her voice tell me she’s ready to set down the ball, she sounds like a stranger.  Something inside of me is twisting and turning and I can’t let her give up so quickly; I know she’s in there somewhere if we just wait a little bit longer.

“Hang in there, Sweet Girl,” I beg her, “It will get better.  Just wait until the games start and you’ll see.”  When she gets into a real competition, I believe my girl will come back.

But nothing I say can convince her because these words don’t fit into her reality.

I am constant.  I am consistent.  I think of every positive thing I can say and text morning, afternoon and night.  It has been weeks, and still I press on.

I send her a verse of the day or a song of the day; often with no reply.

And God tells me, “My word will not return void.  Press on, Mom, she needs you.”

(from Isaiah 55:11)

This time I sense it; she needs a dose of “my” reality.

So I tell her…

“If you were to walk in the door right now, be prepared to live here at home.  Be prepared to pay for gas and insurance, clothes, entertainment…  Basically anything except tuition from this point forward, because that is all your dad and I are prepared to provide should you give up the commitment that you have made.”

Silence.

And then the conversation takes a turn for the worse.  My emotions get the better of me.  Clearly, Dad should have handled this one.  He is much calmer and factual about these matters.

When the call ends, I fear I won’t hear from her for a few days.  But I hold my ground.

The next morning at the gym, I am rewinding the conversation in my mind.  The gym is my place to really think; endorphins are my brain food.  I have been on the stationary bike for longer than I know.  I am sweatier that I care to admit, but am deep in thought.

Instead of plugging my headphones into the TV attached to the bike, I decide to close my eyes and listen to a playlist on my ipod.  The next song begins:

Beautiful Things by Gungor.

(http://www.metrolyrics.com/beautiful-things-lyrics-gungor.html)

It is a song that I have listened to many times before today.  I adore this song and I begin to worship.

Suddenly, I am overcome with an image and know that God is present.  As the image of a cocoon unfolds in my mind, the beautiful butterfly struggles and fights.  Finally it works it’s way free, and is in flight; I weep.

My Sweet Girl!

Thank you, Lord, I am overcome.

Self consciously, I pray that no one will be able to tell the many tears that pour down my face from the sweat that I cannot stop.  But certainly they must see my shoulders slightly heave, now and again, and my mouth curl downward, as I cannot contain myself.

This struggle is hers and she must wrestle with it.  If, like the story goes, of the man who opens the cocoon early to ease the butterfly's struggle, I help her out of this “mess” and make her life easier, my Sweet Girl will also never take flight.

And so I continue to worship and pray.

I have said it before.  I would almost rather she be that crying infant once more; at least I knew how to hold her tight and comfort her in my arms.  Loving her at a distance and watching the struggle is a much harder way to “mother”.

I cannot imagine if she were to suffer to the point of ridicule, torture and execution on a cross… for a crime she did not commit.  Thank You, Father.  You watched that from a distance.

Thank You, Lord, for the gift of being her mother.

Even at this distance, I am content.