A Butterfly Flapping

Author: Carolyn

  • Cain, the First Child

    Genesis 4:1-2

    Many butterfly generations passed, and another strange thing happened. Adam and Eve had a son. The first child was born in this new world God had created. A freshly-out-of-his-cocoon butterfly appeared and rested next to him.

    Of course, rabbits had baby bunnies; cats had kittens; fly eggs hatched; even caterpillars became butterflies; but Cain was special because God had created his parents in God’s own image.

    All the animals came to see the new baby. But he was so slow to grow, most of them went back to doing whatever they did. I mean, Cain took forever to learn to walk or to make the sounds Adam and Eve did. The butterflies who saw the newborn never saw him walk, as they did for newborn lambs and monkeys. Many generations of our species came out of their cocoons before he walked. Each new butterfly visited him, but even after he could walk, it was a long time before he recognized that we were special to him.

    You see, God assigned one family of each generation of butterflies to each of the humans God created. Adam had his series of butterflies as did Eve with hers . And when Cain was born, another line watched over him. Not that we were guardian angels or anything like that. We were just there for our charges to treasure and to advise, when needed.

    I guess that was part of them being created in God’s image. God treasured us, so God’s special creatures should also treasure us.

    Only Cain … Well, he tolerated his butterflies, but as he grew older, he mostly ignored them.

    But it wasn’t just butterflies. See, Cain, being the first child, thought he was … well, let me put it this way. When Abel was born, their parents spent more time with Abel than with Cain. Now parents understand that, because newborn people babies need more attention. But Cain didn’t understand. He was only a year old, so how would he? But he resented the time they spent with his brother.

    So as the two grew up together, Of course, Cain was the first older brother, so he didn’t have any example to follow. And his parents didn’t have any experience either. So Cain was not what you would consider to be a good older brother. He didn’t hit his brother or anything like that, but he let Abel know that he was not welcome to hang around with him.

    Like when he was about six and Abel was five, Cain was playing with a rock. He had made up a game to see how close he could throw it to a target. Abel found another rock and was trying to do the same.

    “Stop it!” the older brother yelled. “This is my game! You make up your own!” He threw his rock at Abel, maybe not trying to hit him, but his aim had improved. It wasn’t a big rock, but it hit the younger brother’s leg.

    Cain’s butterfly flew close to Cain, beating his wings right in front of the boy’s face, trying to communicate his dismay. Fortunately, he reacted quickly when Cain’s hand tried to grab him.

    Abel, of course, ran crying to Eve, followed by his butterfly, trying to sooth him. That made Cain even more angry, that his brother was now getting the attention Cain craved. And the attention that came to Cain was not what he wanted.

    That was sad, because Cain had nobody to play with. Nor did Abel. At least, Abel had his butterflies, but, like I said, Cain didn’t care about his. Cain’s was always careful around his person, but it was his job to stay close. Not necessarily where Cain could see him, but still close.

    When they grew older, when they were expected to work, Cain followed his father: planting, weeding, and harvesting. When Abel tried to join them later, … well …

    Cain waited until his father wasn’t around. “Go away! We don’t need you! This is MY job to help Father! Not yours!”

    (Cain never spoke to his brother without exclamation points. That’s what the person who is writing this story for me said.)

    For a couple of days, Abel sat back in our tent, pouting.His current butterfly tried to coax him outside to play, but Abel stayed inside.

    Remember, none of the animals God created were wild because nobody ate meat, only the fruit of seed-bearing plants and trees.

    Abel’s butterfly coaxed a couple of lambs to the tent. Lambs love to jump and run and play. The butterfly hoped Abel would play with them. One of them landed on a sharp rock, cutting itself. Abel saw that and came out.

    “Let me help you,” he told the lamb. He washed the wound. When it stopped bleeding, he did what his mother did for him. He found the proper kind of leaf and stuck it tight to the lamb’s cut.

    “There. That will make it better.” That’s what Eve always said.

    Abel’s butterfly watched, thinking, “This is something Abel can do, watch the sheep so they don’t get hurt.”

    Immediately, Abel said out loud, “This is something I can do, watch the sheep so they don’t get hurt.”

    Abel gathered together a flock of sheep and tended them. He took them out to pasture, made sure they were close to water but stayed out of it, and that was most of what he did. Oh, occasionally he would shear a sheep, and Eve would take the wool, clean it, spin it into yarn, and weave clothing for the family.

    One day, Cain and Adam were out in the field, pulling thorns and thistles. In the heat, sweat poured off them. Cain stopped for a moment, wiped his face with a cloth, and looked across the field at Abel, sitting with his back against a tree. The older brother always kept an eye on the sheep because they liked to get into his field and eat his grain. Usually, Abel kept them away, but not always. Sometimes Abel was somewhere else, doing something else.

    Cain’s butterfly listened to his person’s thoughts.

    This is not fair! That lazy brother of mine is just resting in the shade while Father and I are working hard, sweating, muscles hurting! These thorns and thistles cut my hands and my arms! It’s just not right!

    (Even when thinking, my writer needed exclamation marks when Cain was speaking about or to Abel)

    Of course, he didn’t say anything like that to his father, and certainly not to his mother. When his parents were around, he knew he had to be careful how he treated his brother.

    “We’re the only ones here,” they would say. “Just the four of us. We have to take care of each other. The animals can’t do it, especially the butterflies.”

    But the family’s butterflies knew what was in their people’s minds.

    And the boys grew up.

    #

    As you probably know, butterflies don’t live a long time, just a few weeks with our wings. And, of course, I can’t write, so I’m going to let the person who is doing this for me finish my stories. She knows them. But I don’t remember all the names of my ancestors who told me stories, so

    Sometimes she’ll have me tell the story, but probably most of them will be written in what she calls “third person,” somebody else.

    Just remember, whenever the story includes a butterfly, it’s one of my ancestors. Maybe she’ll even tell you our story, how she came to write for me.

  • Cain’s Crime and Punishment

    Genesis 4:1-17

    “It’s time to offer our sacrifices to God,” Adam announced one morning. “Go select your best.”

    Each followed by his butterfly, Cain, and Abel went off in different directions to gather what they would bring for the sacrifice.

    Later that day, clouds gathered above as the men below stacked stones for the altar. Adam kept an eye on the darkening sky as they gathered the wood. Three butterflies hovered nearby.

    “Abel, you’re first.”

    As Abel lifted his lamb onto the altar, the sun broke through the clouds. The three butterflies fluttered with excitement. Cain’s was worried. Would the clouds hold their positions for Cain? The butterfly worried about Cain’s thoughts. Why did Abel get to go first?! I’m the older brother! He should be second to offer his sacrifice!

    All three men sighed in relief. God was pleased with this offering. The butterflies flew over the men and perched on a leafy branch behind them.

    As the fire eagerly consumed Abel’s sacrifice, men and butterflies watched the clouds gathering together. Cain’s butterfly knew the weather signs. He hovered near his man.

    “Now yours, Cain.”

    Cain lifted his basket of crushed grain heads onto the cut-up wood. He had crushed his best. Then, to fill the basket, he had taken more grain and crushed it until his basket was full. His mother had given him some olive oil to pour over it to create an aroma pleasing to the Lord.

    A raindrop fell. Then another, followed by a third. Holding his breath, Cain started the fire. The rain that continued to fall did not extinguish the flames, but he struggled to keep them alive. His butterfly fought to stay in the air amid the drops falling onto his wings.

    Nobody spoke as Cain’s offering reluctantly burned. The other butterflies flew to the cover of a branch with more leaves above it.

    When the offering was completed, Adam and Abel turned away to resume their normal duties.

    Cain stood by the altar, his red face buried in his hands. He heard God’s voice, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”*

    The disheartened man did not move. His butterfly hovered behind him, fearing God also knew the man’s thoughts.

    # # #

    Later in the day, Cain, unaware of the butterfly following him, invited his brother to walk with him in the field. As the anger at feeling rejected by God built, the older brother picked up a stone.

    He almost dropped it to cover his ears as he felt someone screaming at him. “No! No! Don’t! Don’t do it, Cain!” He looked around. The only living thing near him, besides his brother, was that pesky butterfly that followed him everywhere. It was flapping its wings furiously right in front of him.

    With his free hand, he swiped the butterfly away and with the other, he lashed out with the stone, leaving Abel bleeding, dying at his feet. He knelt down, feeling the younger man’s last breath.

    “No! No!” The butterfly tried to shout using the only way to communicate with Cain. “It’s not Abel you hate. You’re angry at God for raining on your sacrifice. You don’t understand why!”

    Too late, Cain realized that he was not as angry at Abel as he was at God for raining on his offering.

    Abel’s butterfly dropped to the ground by Abel’s body and did not move. Cain’s hovered behind the older brother. Safety usually involved staying out of Cain’s sight, but even more so now. His thoughts repeated one word, “No.”

    Cain turned away, not sure where to go. He couldn’t go home.

    Again he heard God’s voice, “Where is your brother Abel?”*

    Confused by what he had just done, still angry at God, Cain yelled back, “I don’t know! Am I my brother’s keeper?”*

    He hung his head. God doesn’t have to answer. I know. I know what I did. If Father and Mother were cast out of the garden for eating an apple, …

    What happened was not what he expected.

    “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand.When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”*

    Cain fell to his knees, knowing he was hearing from God the One Who Punishes, the One who sent his parents out of Eden. “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”*

    But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”*

    After God marked him for protection and sent him off that day, Cain wandered aimlessly, with no idea where to go or what to do. As usual, he ignored the butterfly behind him and any of his thoughts.

    When darkness fell, he found a cave and slept. The butterfly perched in a tree near the entrance. He feared the darkness of the cave more than he feared Cain, but would his thoughts reach the frightened man? You are not alone! You have no brother, no family. But God did not kill you. God is taking care of you.

    When Cain woke up, the full realization of his situation struck him. He no longer had a brother, but he also no longer had a family. He was alone in the world. Completely alone. He shivered with fear. He sat in the cave for a long time with that lonely feeling building within him until he wanted to run out into the world screaming! He did not. He sat in the cave until the sun was at its highest.

    Still, he was alive. Was God taking care of him like God took care of his parents after they ate the apple?

    When he came out, the butterfly almost flew into him. The thought crossed his mind that he wasn’t completely alone. He shook his head. What company could a butterfly be?

    Startled, he remembered the butterfly from his childhood. This couldn’t be the same one. They don’t live that long.

    This dbutterfly headed in the direction the sun had come from. Did it tell him … foolish thought. Butterflies don’t talk. But something told Cain to follow it.

    With no better plan, Cain followed.

    After a while, they came upon a trail still muddy from yesterday’s rain. He looked at the prints in the trail in front of him and his behind. He looked at the butterfly as his mind told him, “These aren’t animal tracks. Long feet with five toes. Like mine. People!”

    Shortly before nightfall, the butterfly led Cain into a small village. Children played between the tents. The men were returning from hunting. On flat rocks in the fire rings, the women were baking their breads from the wild grain they had gathered.

    They all stared suspiciously. As the men turned towards him, he held out his hands to show that they were empty. The men greeted him cautiously, but they allowed him to enter the village.

    One of the older women—Cain learned later she was the medicine woman—motioned him to sit outside her door. She glanced at the butterfly and smiled. A man sat down across from him and was soon joined by a younger woman. The rest of the people disappeared into their huts.

    “Who are you and where are you from?” the woman asked.

    “My name is Cain. I am from …” He had no idea what his land was called. He thought it was the only place with people. He motioned in the direction away from the setting sun. “I come in peace,” he added. “I mean no harm to anyone.”

    The woman pointed at the butterfly hovering between them. “You followed the butterfly?”

    “Yes, it led me here.”

    “That’s a good sign.” She raised her hand. “That mark on your forehead?”

    Cain considered the story he had been making up since he found the human tracks. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “God put that mark on me because I killed my brother.”

    The younger woman drew back. The man put his hand on his stone knife on his belt. The older woman frowned, but glanced again at the butterfly now resting on Cain’s shoulder.

    “But God let you live?”

    “Yes.”

    “Are you a threat to us?”

    He sighed. “No.”

    “Someday you will tell us the story?”

    Cain lifted his head. His eyes widened. “Yes, someday.”

    The woman turned to her brother. “Take him into your tent tonight. Tomorrow we will help him create his own. We will teach him our ways.”

    As time passed, Cain became one of the people of Nod. The young woman became his wife, and they named their son Enoch. The number of butterflies increased.

    Because Cain was no longer successful at farming, he taught the people how to plant wheat, but he did not himself. He didn’t want to spread thorns and thistles. He showed them how to tend sheep.

    He encouraged the people to build a town, not with tents, but with mud bricks that withstand the wind and storms. They would live in the town with their sheep and go out to tend their fields.

    He was careful with his butterflies, from one generation to the next, tending the larvae his current butterfly laid and the cocoons that followed. The number of butterflies increased.

    As time passed, Cain realized God had not forgotten him. He remembered the stories his parents told. When Adam and Eve left the garden, God provided them with skins for cover to protect them from the weather. God continued to care for them.

    Even after what Cain did, God marked him with protection. Cain believed he also sent this butterfly to take him to the village where people took him in. The One Who Punished was also the Caretaker, the provider of butterflies.

  • Temporarily Closed for Repairs

    (Click on the little number at the end of the word to read the explanation.)

    The Bible doesn’t name Noah’s wife or the wives of the three sons. No-namers, non-entities, not important. They don’t have any authority, so they don’t need names. But God gave them each a butterfly.

    Noah comes into the house one day and says, “God’s going to flood the world. I’m supposed to build an ark, which we’re going to fill with animals, and we will survive the flood by living in the ark for maybe a year.”

    Mrs. Noah, the woman with no name, sighs and says to herself, “Excuse me? We just built this brand-new house, with all the latest appliances,1 with a built-in vacuum system, with a big screen TV, with the kitchen just the way you designed it, and now we’re going to live in a boat?! With animals?! I think you’ve been out in the sun too long.”

    But to Mr. Noah, she just says, “Yes, dear,” because that’s all she’s allowed to say. Her butterfly glares at Noah’s, who just shrugs his wings, as if “What can I do?”

    You know what it’s like to pack to move? That’s what Mrs. Noah and her daughters-in-law do. They can’t take everything, in fact, they can’t take very much at all, because there are going to be too many animals. And, of course, the animals aren’t part of their decision, either.

    At least, they can decide what to throw away. Aunt Elizabeth’s silver pitcher? The art work the kids did back when they were in school? The worn and frazzled blanket that was a wedding gift from favorite Uncle Zeek? How do you live without all the things you’ve lovingly collected over the years?

    And the tearful farewells. How do you explain to people that you’re going to go live in a houseboat with two2 or seven3 of every kind of known animal and bird? How do you say goodbye to the neighbors who shared your children’s memories? The women who canned vegetables with you? Who shared cinnamon rolls with you? The friends you cooked spaghetti with for fund raisers?

    And why should you, anyway, just because Mr. Noah decided he doesn’t like it here anymore! He was always complaining about the neighbors, how evil they were. What reason does he have to do this to you? Why can’t things be the way they were before? Why does he have to be different?

    The night before they enter the ark, she lies in bed thinking. Her butterfly rests on the nightstand. They look at each other.

    “It’s true,” she thinks to the winged creature, “those people have their faults.” She remembers times when even she walked away from her neighbors. The vase that disappeared from her living room. The children stomping through her vegetable garden. The fire in the tool shed. She shakes her head. “They’re the only neighbors we have.”

    Her butterfly moves closer. “Agreed,” she “hears” in her head. “They haven’t been kind to their butterflies, either. Maybe …” but the rest hangs between them.

    In the morning, a few raindrops fall. And bigger ones. And it rains. The animals have come aboard. The women have found places for whatever household goods they brought, and Noah pulls up the gangplank.

    Mrs. Noah fumes. Well, there are chores to do, but between chores, she fumes. She remembers the painting by Picasso that he decided not to bring. Irreplaceable! How could he do that?

    She thinks of her iris growing in such neat rows. Now the weeds will get them, and, after they leave the ark, it will take her a month of solid yard work to get them into shape. She thinks of her neighbor. They had such good times together. She sure wishes they could share a cup of coffee right now.

    Her butterfly sometimes huddles with Noah’s. She wonders if they are communicating their own frustration. They are as helpless as she is.

    It continues to rain. And it rains some more. It just doesn’t quit raining. Was maybe Noah right, that this flood is going to destroy everything in the world?

    When the ark rises with the water, she is glad to be inside. Some light comes in from above the walls, where there is a space below the roof. She hopes the poles holding up the roof are strong enough.

    # # #

    After forty days and forty nights, it finally quits raining, Mrs. Noah looks out the window of the ark. There is absolutely nothing but water, as far as she can see. No TV antennas, no water towers, not even any mountains! Noah is right. God really has destroyed everything and everyone else. They are lucky to be alive. Noah is a good man. Sometimes he drives her nuts, but he is good and kind. What her husband said must have been the will of God.

    When the water disappears and the mud dries up, she points out the rainbow to her butterfly. Noah’s winged insect also admires the symbol in the skies of God’s covenant with creation.

    ***

    Notes:

    1 No, they did not have appliances in Noah’s time or vacuum systems or big screen TVs. This story mixes the distant past with the present to illustrate the enormity of what was happening.

    2 Genesis 6:19 tells Noah to bring two of every kind, male and female, to keep them alive.

    3 Genesis 7:2-3: “Take with you seven pairs of every kind of clean animal, a male and its mate, and also seven pairs of every kind of bird, male and female, to keep their various kinds alive throughout the earth.”

  • Cain’s Crime and Punishment: Genesis 4:1-17

    “It’s time to offer our sacrifices to God,” Adan announced one morning. “Go select your best.”

    Cain, and Abel went off in different directions to gather what they would bring for the sacrifice, each followed by his butterfly.

    Later that day, clouds gathered above as the men below stacked stones for the altar. Adam kept an eye on the darkening sky as they gathered the wood. Three blue butterflies hovered nearby.

    “Abel, you’re first.”

    As Abel lifted his lamb onto the altar, the sun broke through the clouds. All three men sighed in relief. God was pleased with this offering. The butterflies flew over the men and perched on a leafy branch behind them.

    As the fire eagerly consumed Abel’s sacrifice, the clouds gathered together.

    “Now yours, Cain.”

    Cain lifted his basket of his chosen grain heads onto the fresh wood. A raindrop fell. Then another, followed by a third. Holding his breath, he started the fire. The rain that continued to fall did not extinguish the flames, but he struggled to keep them alive.

    Nobody spoke as Cain’s offering reluctantly burned. The butterflies flew to the cover of a branch with more leaves above it.

    When the offering was completed, Adam and Abel turned away to resume their normal duties.

    Cain stood by the altar, his red face buried in his hands. He heard God’s voice, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”*

    The disheartened man did not move. His butterfly hovered behind him.

    # # #

    Later in the day, Cain, unaware of the butterfly following him, invited his brother to walk with him in the field. As the anger at feeling rejected by God built, the older brother picked up a stone and lashed out, leaving Abel bleeding, dying at his feet. He knelt down, feeling the younger man’s last breath. Too late, he realized that he was not as angry at Abel as he was at God for raining on his offering.

    Abel’s butterfly dropped to the ground by Abel’s body. Cain’s butterfly hovered behind him. It was never safe to be where Cain could see him, but even less now.

    Cain turned away, not sure where to go. He couldn’t go home.

    Again he heard God’s voice, “Where is your brother Abel?”*

    Confused by what he had just done, still angry at God, Cain yelled back, “I don’t know! Am I my brother’s keeper?”*

    He hung his head. God doesn’t have to answer. I know. I know what I did. If Father and Mother were cast out of the garden for eating an apple, …

    What happened was not what he expected.

    “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand.When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”*

    Cain fell to his knees, knowing he was hearing from God the One Who Punished, the one who sent his parents out of Eden. “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”*

    But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”*

    After God marked him for protection and sent him off that day, Cain wandered aimlessly, with no idea where to go or what to do. When darkness fell, he found a cave and slept.

    When he woke up, the full realization of his situation struck him. He no longer had a brother, but he also no longer had a family. He was alone in the world. Completely alone. He shivered with fear. He sat in the cave for a long time with that lonely feeling building within him until he wanted to run out into the world screaming! He did not. He sat in the cave until the sun was at its highest.

    When he came out, the blue butterfly almost flew into him.

    Startled, he remembered the butterfly from his childhood. This couldn’t be the same one. They don’t live that long.

    This butterfly headed in the direction the sun had come from. With no better plan, Cain followed. After a while, they came upon a trail still muddy from yesterday’s rain. He looked at the prints in the trail in front of him and his behind him. “These aren’t animal tracks. Long feet with five toes. Like mine. People!”

    Shortly before nightfall, the butterfly Cain now called Blue flew into a small village. Cain hesitated, then followed. Children played between the tents. The men were returning from hunting, and the women were baking their breads on flat rocks in the fire rings. They saw him coming. As the men turned towards him, he held out his hands to show that they were empty. The men greeted him cautiously, but they allowed him to enter the village.

    One of the older women—Cain learned later that she was the medicine woman—motioned him to sit outside her door. She glanced at the butterfly and smiled. A man sat down across from him and was soon joined by a younger woman. The rest of the people disappeared into their huts.

    “Who are you and where are you from?” the woman asked.

    “My name is Cain. I am from …” He had no idea what his land was called. He motioned in the direction of the setting sun. “I come in peace,” he added. “I mean no harm to anyone.”

    The woman pointed at the butterfly hovering between them. “You followed the butterfly?”

    “Yes, he led me here.”

    “That’s a good sign.” She raised her hand. “That mark on your forehead?”

    Cain considered the story he had been making up since he found the human tracks. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “God put that mark on me because I killed my brother.”

    The younger woman drew back. The man put his hand on his belt above his stone knife. The older woman frowned, but glanced again at the butterfly.

    “But God let you live?”

    “Yes.”

    “Are you a threat to us?”

    He sighed. “No.”

    “Someday you will tell us the story?”

    Cain lifted his head. His eyes widened. “Yes, someday.”

    The woman turned to her brother. “Take him into your tent tonight. Tomorrow we will help him create his own. We will teach him our ways.”

    As time passed, Cain became one of the people of Nod. The young woman became his wife, and they named their son Enoch. The number of blue butterflies increased.

    Because Cain was no longer successful at farming, he taught the people how to plant wheat, but he did not himself. He didn’t want to spread thorns and thistles. He showed them how to tend sheep. He encouraged the people to build a town, not with tents, but with mud bricks that withstood the wind and storms. They would live in the town and go out to tend their fields and livestock.

    He was careful with his butterflies, from one generation to the next, tending the larvae and the cocoons.

    As time passed, Cain realized God had not forgotten him. He remembered the stories his parents told. When Adam and Eve left the garden, God provided them with skins for cover to protect them from the weather. God continued to care for them.

    Even after what Cain did, God marked him with protection. Cain believed he also sent a the butterfly to take him to the village where people took him in. The One Who Punished was also the Caretaker, the provider of butterflies.

  • Living on Flour and Oil: 1 Kings 17:7-16

    David’s son Solomon became king and went on a building spree, conscripting farmers for his construction crews. When Rehoboam followed his father on the throne, the people asked him to lighten their load. The new king refused, and under Jeroboam, ten tribes separated from Judah. Israel and Judah continued as separate nations, with some kings better than others. Ahab of Israel was an “other,” so God sent a drought on the land.

    The drought also affected the neighboring countries, including the community of Zarephath in the region of Sidon, where a family of three lived.

    #

    Several Painted Lady butterflies came in the spring to enjoy the colorful flowers the mother tended near the house. The toddler loved to chase after the orange and black creatures. The father watched him carefully, but his stumbling footsteps were no match for the dainty wings. In the fall, when the flowers died and the leaves turned brown, the butterflies left.

    With no rain, during the first year of the drought, the harvest was smaller than usual. They kept aside a smaller amount of grain to plant in the spring and less for them to eat until the next fall. Everyone around them suffered the same problem.

    “Maybe the rain will come this spring,” the father said.

    It did not. Only a few pretty flowers bloomed for the few butterflies that returned.

    Before the time of harvest, the father died, leaving his widow to support their young son.

    The widow harvested what wheat had grown and set aside some for planting in the spring. “We won’t need as much for flour because there are only two of us now,” she told her son.

    The next spring, she had to make a choice. “Either I grind all the remaining wheat for flour, or I plant it. There is not enough for both.”

    She ground all the wheat to make bread. There would be no harvest if the drought continued, which it did.

    Only one of her flowers appeared, which she watered faithfully for the one returning butterfly.

    She made smaller and smaller breads as she watched her son grow thinner and thinner. He no longer ran and played and chased the butterfly. It spent its time on the flower. She felt weaker every day. They were both hungry all the time.

    One morning she realized there was only enough flour left to make a small bread for herself and her son. Only a tiny amount of oil remained in her jug. She sighed. “This is it. There is no more.”

    With the little energy she had left, she stooped down to pick up a few sticks for the fire to cook the last little bread. She heard an unfamiliar voice. From his accent, she could tell he was a Jew. But he spoke to her, a Gentile woman, a woman who did not worship his Lord God.

    “Would you bring me a little water in a jar so I may have a drink?”*

    From his appearance, he would be thirsty. Dust covered his clothes and his feet, as though he had walked a long way. He dropped himself down on the stump of a tree that had died in the drought. Others had cut it down. She had been picking up its dead branches, the small ones others left behind.

    She nodded to him and turned to go to her house. Water she had, not in abundance, but she had a full jar. The town well was deep and continued to yield water when asked, as long as the women were careful about how much water they drew.

    “And bring me, please, a piece of bread.”*

    She laughed, then blushed, embarrassed by her behavior. Elijah1 looked surprised until she explained. “As surely as the Lord your God lives, I don’t have any bread—only a handful of flour in a jar and a little olive oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son, that we may eat it—and die.”*

    While that sounded melodramatic, it was the truth. After that little bread, nothing remained to eat. That was the last of the grain, ground by hand. Unless a miracle happened, not that she expected one, that would be their last meal,

    But this dusty, ragged, weary old man shrugged, almost as though he did not understand what she meant. Instead, he smiled at the butterfly clinging to the last flower.

    “Don’t be afraid. Go home and do as you have said. But first make a small loaf of bread for me from what you have and bring it to me, and then make something for yourself and your son. For this is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the Lord sends rain on the land.’ ”*

    Her shoulders raised, then dropped. She had nothing to lose. What good was one little bread going to do the two of them? Whether they starved sooner or later, did it matter?

    The butterfly flew up from the flower and rested on her windowsill. She had often thought that it was communicating with her, and somehow, that gave her comfort. This time, it did not move what passed for its mouth, but words entered her mind. “Do as he says. You will be fine.”

    She poured the last of the oil into the last of the flour, mixed it up, shaped it, and put it in the baking oven. A butterfly does not have a mouth, but she felt it smile.

    The empty jar and jug were in her hand to throw away.

    “What’s this? I know I emptied both of these, but there’s a little left in each.” Her eyes wide, she combined the last of the flour with the last of the oil and created another bread. As it baked, she turned to the butterfly. “Thank you.”

    And every day, the butterfly would sit in the window as she poured the last of the oil into the last of the flour, bake it, and feed the old man. Then she would pour the last of the oil into the last of the flour and feed herself and her son. And somehow, those small breads were enough that she felt stronger, healthier. Her son ran and played again. Another flower poked its head out of the ground, and the butterfly seemed stronger.

    That happened enough times that she thought she would quit being surprised about it, but she never did. And each time she gave thanks to the butterfly, which by now she felt represented the old man’s God.

    Thanks until the day her son took sick. Maybe it had something to do with having nothing but bread to eat, or maybe the same sickness had taken his father. Her son coughed a few times, like his father had, and quit breathing. She put her face to his mouth, but no breath came out.

    She gathered him up in her arms and went straight to the old man. “What do you have against me, man of God? Did you come to remind me of my sin and kill my son?”*

    Her face was red, and her voice was harsh. For the last several months, she had shared what little flour and oil she had and given him a room on the roof. Was this how he and his God repaid her? Why had his God kept the oil and flour flowing and then taken her son away? Was it not enough that God had taken her husband? And now also her son?

    As she passed the two flowers, she noticed the butterfly hanging upside down. She had not seen that before. “Are you sad, too?” she asked, but she did not wait for an answer.

    The old man had seen the boy was sick. He had watched her sitting by his side, wiping his brow, encouraging him to get well.

    Looking at her holding the body, he reached out his arms.

    “Give me your son.”* He took the boy, carried him up the stairs to his room, and laid him on his bed. She stood at the bottom, sobbing with grief.

    The old man cried out, “Lord my God, have you brought tragedy even on this widow I am staying with, by causing her son to die?”*

    She could hear the emotion in his voice. He had spent many hours with the boy, carving him toys, showing him how to do things like his father would have done. Elijah was no longer a stranger, a foreigner; he was a friend, a good friend.

    He often told them the story about the ravens who brought him bread and meat in the morning and in the evening.

    “As long as water ran in the creek bed, God sent the birds to bring me what I needed to eat. I was hiding because I defied the king and queen of Israel, and they were looking to kill me.”

    But when the creek dried up, he left Israel and came to live here.

    She called up the stairs. “So if God sent the ravens, sent you to us, kept the oil in the jar and the flour in the jug, why did God let my son die?”

    He did not respond to her, but it seemed the old man wanted to know the same thing.

    He stretched himself out on the bed on top of the child three times, each time crying out, “Lord my God, let this boy’s life return to him!”*

    After the third time, she heard a moan, a small moan, a child’s moan, her son’s moan. He sat up, and the old man took him and brought him down the stairs.

    “Look, your son is alive!”*

    And he was.

    She hugged the boy, still crying, but now from relief. The butterfly flew to her and landed on her shoulder.

    “Now I know that you are a man of God and that the word of the Lord from your mouth is the truth.”*

    When the rains came, the green in her field was not weeds. The grain she would have planted was sprouting. The oil and the flour lasted until she came home with her first gathering of seed heads. Her flowers grew in abundance, and the butterflies returned. She rejoiced because now she could fill the jar with oil and the jug with flour.

    Elijah returned to his own country to face his king and queen.

    #

    Endnote:

    1 Elijah was an important prophet from the Old Testament. He appears in both 1 and 2 Kings and in both 1 and 2 Chronicles. The gospels mention him. At the Transfiguration, Jesus talked with both Moses and Elijah.

  • A Slave in Pharaoh’s Palace

    Exodus 5-12:38

    Written by Carolyn in Exodus

    Chaya was old enough to understand that what slavery does to a person was hard, but as a slave, she had no power to object. Serving in Pharaoh’s palace, Chaya had advantages that her cousins did not as they worked in the fields in the heat and the cold—planting, weeding, and harvesting. She also had more information about the goings-on in the palace, not that it did her much good.

    One advantage, if there were any, of being a slave was that it made one invisible, especially a young one, only a child and a girl at that. Nobody paid any attention to her, wandering through the big hall where Pharaoh and his advisors met to discuss weighty matters. All she had to do was look busy, like on some important errand, like she had a reason for being where she was. She learned that technique at an early age.

    Her grandmother told her about a vision, a dream, a hope, a silly idea that someday the Prince would return and rescue them. The Prince, she always called him, never by name because a slave did not address the royal family by name. The Pharaoh’s daughter had drawn him out of the waters of the river Nile, so she called him Moses, drawn out. Grandmother had been his caretaker. Not his nurse, because that had been his Hebrew mother. Grandmother watched over him when he came to the palace to live, after his weaning.

    At night, with their work done, Grandmother and granddaughter retired to their little room in the back of the palace. Grandmother told Chaya stories about the Prince. She laughed at some of her memories, cried at others, but Chaya always heard a tug of hope when she spoke of the last time she saw him.

    “Nana,” he told her, “I have done something wrong. I don’t know if what I did was foolish or not, but I have to leave. It’s not safe for me here, but I will come back. I will come back and improve your life. I will come back to free our people.”

    Grandmother clung to that promise. “He will come back.” She would smile. “He said he would.” Nobody else believed her, but Chaya did. Of course, she was only a child.

    Late one morning, Chaya heard a commotion outside the palace. Curious, she went to see. Two dusty, ragged men had approached the guard. “We would speak with the Pharaoh.”

    Above the men, she was surprised to see two Painted Lady Butterflies.

    “Right!” The guard laughed. “And what business do you fine gentlemen have with the Ruler of the Nile?”

    “The Lord’s business,” one of them replied.

    “The Lord? Which Lord? What country is he from?”

    “I have a message from the Lord to give to Pharaoh. It’s important. It will change his life.”

    Chaya could see the guard hesitating. The men looked like they had traveled a fair distance. Could they be from a far country? Could the Lord be their king? Should he let them in?

    In the end, he did. As the men came through the doors, the butterflies followed, but they flew high up near the ceiling.

    The guard escorted the men into the Pharaoh’s main chamber for greeting emissaries from other countries. Again, the butterflies flew high above them. After a while, Pharaoh appeared and sat upon his throne to receive these two visitors.

    One of the strangers stepped forward and reached out his staff. “This is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘Let my people go, so that they may hold a festival to me in the wilderness.’ ”*

    The guard moved closer. This was not what he expected, but the Pharaoh smiled. The child recognized that expression—he wore it when he was toying with someone. These country bumpkins did not stand a chance.

    Pharaoh feigned seriousness. “Who is the Lord, that I should obey him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord and I will not let Israel go.”*

    The ragged speaker continued. “The God of the Hebrews has met with us. Now let us take a three-day journey into the wilderness to offer sacrifices to the Lord our God, or he may strike us with plagues or with the sword.”*

    “Moses and Aaron, why are you taking the people away from their labor? Get back to your work!”* Chaya gasped in surprise. Pharaoh recognized these men.

    Moses and Aaron? Moses? Was this Grandmother’s Prince? He sure did not look like a prince. He looked more like a shepherd.

    Chaya watched the two men leave. Glancing up toward the butterflies, they raised their heads and walked out confidently.

    Then Pharaoh increased the workload for the Hebrew people. He told their supervisors, “You are no longer to supply the people with straw for making bricks; let them go and gather their own straw.But require them to make the same number of bricks as before; don’t reduce the quota.They are lazy; that is why they are crying out, ‘Let us go and sacrifice to our God.’Make the work harder for the people so that they keep working and pay no attention to lies.”*

    As the days passed, even those in the back room of the palace could hear the Hebrews grumbling against Moses and Aaron. “May the Lord look on you and judge you! You have made us obnoxious to Pharaoh and his officials and have put a sword in their hand to kill us.”*

    Grandmother tried to calm the people. “The Prince has come back to help.” They did not see it that way.

    Late one night, she and Chaya snuck out of the palace and found where the Prince was staying. The same butterflies the girl had seen at the palace, or similar ones, rested on the tall stalks by the door.

    For a few minutes, the Prince, his brother, and Grandmother hugged and laughed. When Grandmother introduced Chaya, he greeted her like a little sister.

    Grandmother told him, “You said you would come back, and I knew you would.”

    “Not willingly, Nana,” he replied. “If I’d had my way, I would have stayed where I was. Maybe I should have, anyway. All I’ve done is make things worse.”

    “No, listen to the Lord. Do as God says. God will do what God says and will lead us to the land of our ancestors.”

    “But the people won’t listen to me.”

    “Then go back to Pharaoh, as God said.” Her voice was stern, like she had authority over the Prince.

    “You think he will listen to me?”

    “God will take care of that. Just go do what God says.”

    Chaya could tell that Moses was reluctant. He had spoken again with God. That must have been some conversation, with God telling Moses to go and then telling Moses that God would harden Pharaoh’s heart. Pharaoh’s heart was already hard as stone. God was going to do mighty acts so that the Egyptians would know who the Lord was. That made no sense to her.

    That’s when the real trouble began. Moses stood in front of Pharaoh with his brother, who threw down his staff, and it became a snake! Pharaoh’s magicians brought their staffs and turned them into snakes. Aaron’s staff/snake swallowed the others, so only one snake remained, which Aaron picked up by the tail, and it became a staff again.

    From then on, one disaster followed another for the Egyptians. Moses and Aaron would come, repeating the demand from the Lord, Pharaoh would refuse, and the two would leave. Each time Chaya saw the butterflies accompany them, flying high above. Apparently only the child looked up to see them. Then butterflies and brothers would leave, encouraged, but she did not understand why.

    Finally Chaya could stand the mystery no longer. “Grandmother, why do Moses and Aaron have butterflies that follow them around?”

    Grandmother had not seen the butterflies, so she tucked her chin, widened her eyes, and shook her head. “Butterflies? Where have you seen butterflies?”

    “Every time Moses and Aaron come, two butterflies come with them.”

    Grandmother paused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “There’s an old legend … I heard it once, from my grandmother. She didn’t remember all of it, but it had something to do with butterflies and the first people.”

    She sat down. “Come, child, and sit with me.”

    Chaya snuggled into her grandmother’s lap.

    “I’m not sure I remember it all, but it started with Adam and Eve. You remember that story, don’t you?”

    Chaya nodded. “They were the first two people. They ate an apple, and the Lord chased them out of the perfect garden.”

    Grandmother smiled. “You have a good memory. … But then God gave a line of butterflies to each of them. A line of them, because they don’t live very long. But the new ones have the memories of the ones before them, so they continued to help their people. Adam and Eve’s children all had butterflies, and their children, and on down the line.”

    “Why don’t we have butterflies? I’d like that!” The child imagined a butterfly following her wherever she went. She would hold it in her hand and love it.

    Grandmother’s face turned thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she finally replied. “But … well, you know how these Egyptians are about bugs in the palace.”

    “But butterflies aren’t …” Chaya stopped. Yes, she supposed, butterflies were bugs. “But they’re so pretty.”

    “They must have been eliminated several generations ago.”

    Chaya was sad the rest of the day, thinking about the chance she had to have a butterfly but couldn’t because of where she lived.

    The water in the Nile River turned to blood. Pharaoh’s magicians brought some water and turned it into blood to show that Moses was not the only one with that power.

    The fish died, the water stank, and nobody could drink it. Every bit of water in the ponds and streams, in the canals and cisterns, in the storage jars—even the water in Pharaoh’s drinking cup—turned red and thick. Everywhere what should have been water was blood.

    A week later, Moses came back, this time followed by a plague of frogs. They were everywhere—in the palace, in the bedrooms, jumping on the beds like children, in the ovens, even in the bowls the women used to knead the bread! Chaya could not lie down at night because they crawled all over her. During the day, she could not walk without stepping on them!

    Pharaoh’s magicians had to add their own frogs to the mix, making matters even worse. Grandmother thought Pharaoh would reason that this was all trickery if his people could do the same things Moses and Aaron did. Pharaoh seemed to tire of all this. He called in the two troublemakers and agreed to let the people go if the frogs left.

    “I leave to you the honor of setting the time for me to pray for you and your officials and your people that you and your houses may be rid of the frogs, except for those that remain in the Nile,”* Moses offered. 

    Chaya told Grandmother, “I’d have said, ‘Yesterday,’ ” but Pharaoh being Pharaoh, he said, “Tomorrow.” 

    The next day, the only frogs were dead frogs. Everyone had to scrape the bodies out of the rooms, out of the palace, out of the courtyards, off the roads, and out of the fields. The people piled them into big heaps, and the whole countryside reeked of dead frogs!

    Of course, then Pharaoh changed his mind. That brought on gnats: miserable, tiny biting bugs that swarmed all over everything and everyone. Fortunately for everyone, the magicians could not make gnats, or it would have been even worse. The magicians told Pharaoh that this was beyond them, that it must be the work of a god, but he ignored them.

    Flies followed the gnats, but God added a twist. The flies were all over Egypt, except in Goshen, where the Hebrew slaves lived. Chaya wished she and Grandmother lived in Goshen because the palace was a miserable place to be.

    Pharaoh tried to let the people go make their sacrifices while staying in Egypt, but Moses would not accept that. A three days’ journey was what the Lord demanded. Otherwise, the sacrifices would offend the Egyptians.

    The new pattern continued. A plague killed Egyptian livestock but did not touch the Israelite animals. Festering boils erupted on people and animals (but not on the Israelites). A horrible hailstorm with huge stones killed any person or animal they hit, even destroying all the crops and splitting apart grown trees (except in Goshen). Then locusts that ate anything missed by the hail were followed by darkness over the land for three days.

    Chaya hoped the two butterflies were safe. They always followed Moses and Aaron whenever they came to announce a new plague.

    Each time Pharaoh softened a little, giving a little, but never enough to allow all the Israelite slaves—families and animals—to leave. Pharaoh was smart enough to realize they would never come back.

    After the darkness, after Moses had restored the light, Pharaoh had enough. “Go away and don’t ever come back!” Chaya reasoned that each time Moses came, he brought another plague. Perhaps if Moses did not come back, there would not be any more plagues.

    That was not the case. One more disaster would befall Egypt and all Egyptian families.

    God gave Moses detailed instructions for his people. They were to spread lamb’s blood on the door frames of their houses and roast the lamb. They were to remain dressed, ready to travel.

    At midnight, the Lord sent the Angel of Death throughout the land. The angel passed by the houses with blood on the door frame, but in every other household, the firstborn of both people and animals died. Grandmother was the youngest child in her family, and Chaya was the second. Her mother was a firstborn, but she had died at Chaya’s birth. Because there was no blood on the door frame of the palace, other Hebrew families in the palace mourned along with the Egyptians. Regardless of their ages, the firstborn of every family died, including Pharaoh’s son.

    Caught between rage and grief, Pharaoh sent for Moses and Aaron. “Up! Leave my people, you and the Israelites! Go, worship the Lord as you have requested. Take your flocks and herds, as you have said, and go. … And also bless me.”*

    That last bit surprised Chaya. As she hid behind a curtain, she watched Moses raise his hand in blessing. Chaya’s eyes widened as one of the butterflies flew down and lit on Moses’ hand. She did not hear what Moses whispered because she lost his words in the moaning and weeping that filled the palace.

    Grandmother and granddaughter packed the few things they owned and slipped out of the palace. Only a child, Chaya thought this would be a grand adventure. She did wonder if the butterflies would go with them. Maybe she could be friends with them. Or would she …? Was it possible …? Might she get her own butterfly?

    Grandmother was hesitant. Living in the wilderness meant sleeping in tents, trying to find enough food and water for themselves and for the animals, having to mend or repair everything, sandstorms, and river crossings. All of that and more would create hardships.

    The hardest thing, however, would be to keep a positive attitude. In the end, that was the greatest struggle.

  • Sacrificing the Child of the Promise

    Genesis 22

    “Why have you been crying, Mother?” Isaac stood at the tent door, staring at his mother. He stepped inside and took her hand. “We’re going to make a special sacrifice. We’ll be back within a few days.”

    Her smile did not reach her eyes as she waved him away.

    The preteen* turned and joined his father. A donkey carried the wood for the altar, and two servants stood waiting with Abraham. A few butterflies fluttered above them. Sarah watched the small group, led by Abraham and her son, disappear in the distance.

    The combination of pain and anger dried Sarah’s face. She understood the real purpose of the journey. Sarah and Abraham had argued long into the night.

    “You can’t do this! We won’t have any sons to carry on. There will be no descendants like stars in the sky!” she shouted.

    Abraham shook his head and replied softly. “This is what God told me to do. ‘Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.’ I have to, because …”

    “NOOOO!” she screamed. “God told us we would have a son. A son. One son! Not any more! We can’t get Ishmael back. You sent him away. We have no other sons to fulfill God’s promise.”

    She cried, threatened, pleaded, anything to dissuade him, to no avail. He turned away. And now they were gone, gone to sacrifice her son, the son she had nursed and burped. The son she had watched, holding out her hands, as he took his first steps. The son whose first tooth she had sewn into the hem of her robe.

    As the sun rose high in the sky, the grieving mother slipped back into the tent. Picking up their sleeping blanket, she shook it angrily. She lifted it to fold it up, but instead, wadded it into a bundle and threw it into the corner. She would sleep in something else.

    She turned to look out the tent flap. A butterfly circled near the front of the tent.It rose and fell, managing to face her most of the time. She glared at it. If this was God’s gift to them, as the elders said, it was not what she wanted. What she wanted was the son God gave her.

    “But Isaac is the Son of the Promise,” she shouted, almost blowing the butterfly away.

    The servants were nowhere around. Years of serving Sarah had taught them better than to remain close when their mistress showed her temper. She continued the argument with Abraham, even though he was out of sight and sound.

    “Remember? Remember what God said when you had that other vision?” She stomped her foot on the hard-packed floor. “I hate your visions!” Her tone mocked her husband. “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you.”* She remembered another vision. “Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them. So shall your offspring be.”*

    She sank to the floor in despair. “Remember what God told you when you became Abraham instead of Abram? I went from Sarai to Sarah? God said, ‘Yes, but your wife Sarah will bear you a son, and you will call him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him.’ ”* Head in her hands, she sobbed. “Isaac, my only son Isaac, my precious child, my tall, handsome son.”

    Tears spent, she raised her head and lifted her hands, pleading, “God, you are my only hope now. You gave me this son when I had no hope. You scolded me for laughing, but you told us to name him ‘Laughter.’ Take care of this child, your child, the child you promised me.”

    No voice answered, no vision of a safe return appeared, but somehow, Sarah found some peace. The butterfly continued its circle, seeming to stare at her. She wondered if this could be a sign from God. Surely God, who had given her this son, would not take him away now.

    She knew her husband well. He would have no peace with the command ringing in his ears. “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.” *

    Would he have the courage even to look at his son walking beside him?

    Would Abraham question his vision? Could he consider that he might have been mistaken? Might he have imagined what he heard? Might Sarah have been right? Was this God speaking? The people of their time believed that their gods sometimes required the sacrifice of their oldest son. He hated the thought of others doing it.

    But the words would fill his ears again. “Take your son …” He had always obeyed, and he would obey now.

    Sarah clutched the tooth in the hem of her robe, but she did not sleep. She had not slept since they left. This was the third day of anguish and grieving, alternating with a strange peace. When the peace came upon her, she dozed. But after a short time, she would wake with a start, shaking in fear.

    At dawn, she crept out, looking over the hill, scanning the horizon. Of course, the darkness restricted her view, but she sat outside, staring where they had gone, willing herself to see a mountain that far away. Instead, in the moonlight, she saw a rabbit creep cautiously along the edge of the trees. And the butterfly returned, seeming to try to communicate with her.

    It would be today. They would need about three days to reach the land of Moriah, to reach whatever mountain. It would be today.

    The servants came and offered her breakfast, but she shook her head. They returned to their chores, cleaning up from the meal they had prepared, beginning the next meal. She saw them close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough away to not disturb her. They had heard her screams of rage, her arguments with absent Abraham, and they had put the pieces together. They whispered sympathetically, but they stayed away. The butterfly followed her wherever she went.

    She dozed. Did she dream? Or was she somehow transported to the place? She seemed to hover in the air as Abraham lifted the wood from the donkey and hung it from a sling on Isaac’s back.

    The butterfly! Over Isaac’s head, was it the same butterfly? It couldn’t be in two places at once, but Isaac’s butterfly looked the same.

    Abraham turned to the two young men with them. He pointed to the mountains. “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.”* She heard a catch in his throat when he said “we.” Did he mean that? Not if he was going to obey God’s order. Was that a sign or a slip of the tongue? He shook his head and touched his knife in its sheath inside his belt. Knowing him, he had spent the night sharpening the blade.

    They set off together, the son carrying the wood and the father carrying the ember, carefully cradled in a small pot. Isaac’s butterfly flew along with them, staying close to the young man.

    Abraham’s had accompanied them, but it hung back more than normal. Did it know what was going to happen?

    About mid-morning, Isaac looked over at his father. “The fire and wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”*

    “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”*

    His answer reminded Sarah of her question. Would God provide a lamb? Isaac was the promised son. Isaac was the son to give them uncountable descendants, more than the stars in the sky. How could that happen if he offered Isaac as a burnt offering?

    Something on Abraham’s face told Sarah what the man was thinking. She had heard it many times: God knew the future. God knew the plan. He would trust God’s promise and plan. “Trust.” She saw his lips form the word over and over, softly.

    When Abraham picked up the first stones to make the altar, Sarah willed herself to flee. She could not stay. If she had any control of this vision, she would not remain there with them.

    Back at the camp, a woman ventured toward Sarah with a bowl of stew, but when she shook her head, the servant returned to the others.

    Sometime later, the dozing mother leaped to her feet, almost bumping into the butterfly hovering above her. “NO! STOP! NO!” In her semi-conscious mind, she had seen the flash of a knife. “Stop him, God,” she shouted to the wind, to the butterflies with her son and her husband. “Don’t let him do it! Don’t let him kill my son! Don’t let him! Isaac is your promise! Your covenant! Don’t let him kill your promise!”

    She ran to the top of the hill, to the grove of trees, sobbing and screaming, “NO!” as her feet carried her to where she had last seen them. At the top of the hill, she collapsed. “No,” she murmured. “He’s your child too. The child of the promise. You promised …”

    In her frustration, she swatted at the butterfly. “Go away! Stop following me!”

    Ignoring the butterfly, she lay motionless on the ground until sunset, when she stumbled to her tent. Had God heard her? Had God responded? Had God protected her son? The child of the covenant?

    Exhausted, she slept fitfully, still clutching the hem of her robe. Her half-awake dreams alternated between seeing the altar Abraham had built and feeling her son safe in her arms.

    The next day, she accepted a bit of bread from the servants before returning to the top of the hill on the other side of the trees. And she waited, watching the butterfly. She had waited twenty-four years after God’s first promise for this child to be born. She could wait two or three days for him to return safely with his father.

    At noon, she shook her head at the servant who came to offer her a bit of meat. She spent a few minutes looking at the servants as they whispered and glanced in her direction. Then she turned back to the horizon, waiting and watching, watching and waiting.

    Despite knowing they would not travel at night, she did not return to the tent when the sun sank. She kept her vigil, even though she could see nothing. The moon stayed in bed, and dark clouds covered the stars. She shivered in the night air, but she watched, listening for the clopping of donkey’s hooves, the slapping of sandals, the scuffles of tired feet. The butterfly waited on a twig nearby. She wondered if butterflies sleep.

    Morning came, and she ate the bit of hot porridge the servant offered. “Thank you. This is good,” she told her gently. The servant stared at her in surprise, then turned and went back to the camp.

    “Maybe I should not be so harsh with them,” she thought. “They are trying to take care of me.”

    Another sleepless night and she remained outside her tent. She ate and drank what the servant brought her. She decided the butterfly was sleeping, its wings folded tightly above it. She tried to remember seeing butterflies this close before. Only once, when the three men came by and she laughed when one of them, when God promised her a son.

    As the sun began its afternoon descent, she thought she saw something on the horizon. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked again. Nothing moved. She sighed. “I’m tired,” she thought. “I haven’t really slept in how many days? I’m seeing things.” Another moan. Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, how I want to see them return.”

    Gradually, she became aware of someone beside her. Not the butterfly resting nearby. She felt someone close. She felt a comforting Presence, like when she was a child, when she was sick, and her mother sat by her. “I’m going crazy,” she thought, “I’m going crazy.”

    She continued to wait, alone, but not alone. She spoke to the Presence. “God, why would you do such a thing to my son? Why would you tell my husband to sacrifice your child of the promise?”

    She remembered being called out from Harran, the city where they lived, to a place God would show them. Was that so they would recognize that God was different, so they could go beyond what others believed their gods wanted? Sometimes she seemed to understand God in new ways, but sometimes she held onto her old ideas. Was change coming? Did she have new understandings about God?

    If Isaac lived, would he also find new ways to live, new ways to offer worship, new ways to serve? Somewhere inside her, deep within her mind and soul, she felt a vibrant affirmation. She looked at the butterfly, flapping its wings above her.

    In the silence that followed, Sarah tried to clear her thoughts. Lack of sleep. That was her problem. If they did not return tonight, she would go back into the tent and sleep. She wanted to be awake and alert when …

    The butterfly swooped down, almost touching her, and then flew away toward where they had gone. She followed it with her eyes. What did she see in the distance? Something moving! Several somethings moving! In the dusk, she could not count the figures. The shorter one, was that the donkey? She squinted into the setting sun, but she could not tell. As the sun hovered over the horizon, as the figures dropped into the shadows, she could not see them.

    She started in their direction. At first, a slow, deliberate walk, but then her feet flew faster and faster, running breathlessly as a tall figure rushed toward her.

    As their bodies collided, she heard Abraham’s voice saying, “He’s OK. It’s all right.” She sank into his arms, then turned and grabbed her son, her tall, handsome son. At his age, he often pulled away, but this time he hugged her close, lifting her off the ground.

    “Thank you, God,” she cried, as her feet dangled above her son’s ankles and their butterflies swooped around them both.

    Together, they returned to the camp. Abraham handed the donkey’s rope to the young men and followed Sarah, still clutching her son’s hand, into the tent.

    “I don’t know,” he said, “if God was testing me—the angel seemed to say that. Or if you were right, if maybe something else. But the angel stopped me, and we sacrificed a ram caught in the bushes instead.” He paused. “We hurried back because I knew you were worried.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry it was so hard for you.”

    As she heard the butterflies landing softly on the tent, Sarah drifted off to sleep, clutching the child of the promise. She felt again the words of the Presence. “They will learn that I care about each of you, about all of you, and I do not wish the sacrifice of anyone.” She wondered how long it would be before people would learn.

    * * *

    * No age is given for Isaac at this point. The most common understanding of the event is that Isaac was a child, but verse 6 says that Abraham “placed” the wood on Isaac. The amount of wood needed for such a sacrifice suggests an older Isaac. A child could not have carried what the donkey did.

  • Saving Boy Babies

    Exodus 1:15-21 (NIV)

    The women walked slowly out of the palace. They did not notice the yellow pansy butterfly accompanying them.

    Neither said a word until they passed through the door into Shiphrah’s adobe-brick house. Puah’s arms flew out, and her eyes blazed as she struggled to control her voice.

    “Who does he think he is? How can he tell us to kill all the baby boys? Doesn’t he know what we do? Who we are? Why? Why does he want them dead?”

    The older Shiphrah reached out to her sister, her voice calm, but firm. “No,” she replied. “We will not do it. No way. Our job is to bring babies, boys or girls, into this world alive and as healthy as we can.”

    She paused, then continued, answering the “why.” “Because he’s afraid, afraid of foreigners, of people who aren’t like him. He’s afraid of people who speak a different language, who have different customs. And he’s afraid they will rebel against their work.”

    “But they’ve been here a long time. These are the descendants of the ones who came back in the time of Joseph. They’re our friends. They speak our language.”

    “And they speak their own Hebrew.”

    Puah pulled away and banged on the wall. Shiphrah cautioned, “Careful, Puah. Don’t hit so hard. You’ll break your hand.”

    “How can you be so calm? How can you stand there and not shake with rage?”

    “Oh, don’t worry, inside I am. But we need to devise a plan, to figure out how we’re going to do what we’re going to do. This is serious. We can’t … We need a plan.”

    “You’re better at that than I am. You think. I’ll pace.”

    For the next hour Puah paced around the room, muttering angrily while Shiphrah leaned against the wall, letting out an occasional sigh.

    As she shifted her position, a movement outside caught her eye. A light yellow butterfly clung to a flower just outside her window. It seemed to be looking her right in the eye. Was it communicating with her?

    She turned back to her pacing sister. “You know what he will do to us if the Hebrew boy babies continue to be born alive.”

    Puah stopped and nodded. “You have a plan?”

    “Maybe. If …”

    A knock on the door interrupted her. “Puah! Shiphrah! We need you! Now! Rachel is …”

    Before the voice could finish, the door flew open, and the two midwives rushed out. The three ran through the maze of houses. The yellow butterfly followed.

    “Here!”

    As they reached the door, Shiphrah called out, “Ah, listen! A baby has been born!”

    Once inside, they could hear a woman crying in pain.

    “It’ll be okay now, Rachel. They’re here.” The woman who had summoned the midwives touched Rachel’s arm. “You’re going to be fine.”

    A half hour later, Puah held the newborn. Her eyes raised to Shiphrah’s as she whispered, “He’s a boy.”

    The older midwife smiled and nodded as she made the announcement to the mother. “He’s a fine, healthy boy.”

    The mother relaxed. “Thank God.”

    The other three women washed the baby, wrapped him in a blanket, and presented him to his mother. “Take good care of him,” Shiphrah said, as the midwives left.

    As time passed, the two women delivered more babies, some of them boys. Each time, Puah raised her eyes and whispered, “He’s a boy.” Each time, Shiphrah smiled and announced the gender to the mother.

    One evening, as they sat in the courtyard, Shiphrah noticed the butterfly again. She was about to comment on its frequent presence, when Puah whispered, “Shiphrah, do you know what we’re doing?”

    “Yes, we’re delivering babies. Healthy babies.”

    The younger woman shook her head. “He’s going to find out.”

    “Yes, but I … and he will call us in, I’m sure.”

    “And what will we do?”

    “Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

    Shiphrah touched Puah’s shoulder.

    “It’s about the way his mind works. Not the way ours do. These people are individuals to us—names, faces, friends. They’re numbers to him, nothing more than numbers. Foreigners. Not Egyptians. He sees them as animals, like cattle or sheep or goats. And that’s in our favor. Cattle and sheep and goats birth their calves, their lambs, their kids without any midwives. They do it by themselves.”

    She stopped, as though that explained everything.

    Puah shook her head and raised her eyebrows. “So?”

    “So that’s what we tell him. His orders were to kill them at birth, like they were stillborn. If the women had their babies without help, then we weren’t there yet. Then the mother and the others in the house see they were born alive.”

    “But …”

    “Haven’t you noticed that when we get to the house, I say, ‘Ah! Listen! A baby has been born’?”

    “Yes, but … but then we go in and help the mother deliver the baby.”

    “Right, but if any Egyptian soldiers hear me, they think it’s already happened. The baby is born. We’re not responsible.”

    Puah’s lips turned up slightly, but her eyebrows furrowed.

    “Will he believe that?”

    “Yes, I’m sure. We can’t make it look like they were stillborn if we aren’t there when the baby comes. He considers them animals, and animals have their babies by themselves. Yes, that will make sense to him.”

    “I hope so.”

    “We’re doing the right thing. Surely God will protect us if we protect these babies.”

    They did not wait long. The next morning, two soldiers knocked at their door.

    “Shiphrah? Puah?”

    The two women nodded.

    “Come with us. The Pharaoh wishes to speak to you.”

    Walking between the two soldiers to the palace, Shiphrah clutched Puah’s hand. She could feel the younger hand trembling as she tried to control her own fear. Again, she wondered about the presence of the butterfly flying with them. Was it to encourage them?

    Shiphrah felt herself shivering as the large doors to the palace closed behind them. They entered the public room where the Pharaoh sat at the other end. He glared at them as they stepped toward him. The two soldiers dropped back, leaving the women standing alone a dozen paces away from this man who held their lives in his hands.

    “What are you doing? Why have you let the boys live?” The women felt the vibrations from the anger in his voice.

    Shiphrah took one step forward. She spoke confidently. “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women; they are vigorous and give birth before we arrive.” 

    Silence followed as the Pharaoh considered her words. The Hebrew settlement covered a large area. It could take some time for someone to summon them and more time before they could go from their house to the house where the birthing would happen. He knew nothing about birthing babies and how long that would take. These two women also delivered Egyptian babies, and they were well respected by the Egyptian women.

    He wanted Hebrew boy babies dead, but this plan was not working.

    Without a word, he raised his hand, dismissing the midwives. The soldiers led them to the outer door and sent them on their way.

    Outside the palace, Puah whispered, “Can I breathe again?”

    The butterfly landed gently on the older sister’s shoulder. Shiphrah exhaled deeply and smiled. “I think so. Thank God!”

  • Adam and Eve

    Genesis 2-3

    The story gets a little strange here. I received it from two different butterfly lines, and they couldn’t agree on some details. They didn’t agree about some of Creation, in what order it happened and when. One of my great-great-ever-so-many-great aunts told how God created butterflies, the story I already told you. This version is from one of my great-great-ever-so-many-greats uncles that has come down through thousands of generations. I’m just going to call them my aunt and my uncle, without the ‘greats’.”

    Another difference in the stories is that my aunt used the single word “God,” but my uncle’s name for the Creator was “the Lord God.”

    According to my uncle, there isn’t any vegetation yet. The Lord God needs someone to work the ground. Taking some dust, the Lord God shapes it into a man and breathes into it and puts the man in the garden called Eden.

    The garden comes with grass and flowers and bushes and trees, including the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Adam has only one rule: Do not eat the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He will surely die if he does. Of course, at that point, none of the new creatures knows what “die” means.

    Our ancestors love the trees, but they aren’t sure if that warning includes them too. They stay away from those two trees. They like the flowers better anyway.

    After deciding to have Adam name all the creatures, the Lord God notices the man standing alone in the middle of all the pairs of animals. “It is not good for the man to be alone.”*

    Maybe some creature already present would be a proper helper. So the Lord God has all the land animals and flying creatures line up so Adam can name each pair. His vocabulary expands as he labels each as horse, cow, elephant, serpent, lizard, turtle, robin, hawk, eagle, and so on. Somewhere in there, the insects hover in front of the namer, about eye level.

    Adam stares at the two butterflies. Now he has commented on other creatures. He’s amazed at the size of the elephants, the shells of the turtles, the ability of the hawks to fly both high and low. But when our little ancestors look him in the eye, Adam is quiet. Finally, he smiles. “I just gave the name ‘flies’ to a pair of flying things, but you are better than those two. I’ll call you ‘betterflies.’ ”

    A frantic buzzing behind him seems to speak to Adam.

    “OK, the flies don’t like that. I’ll make it ‘butterfly.’ ”

    He turns to the little black flies behind him. “Will that work?”

    Apparently it does, because that becomes our name.

    Adam continues naming animals and birds. The Lord God takes him to the ocean, where he names the sea creatures as they swim past him.

    Finally, naming complete, Adam takes a nap, a long nap. His newborn brain is exhausted.

    While he sleeps, the Lord God ponders. Land and sea creatures now have names, but none of them seems to be suitable as a helper for Adam. Our ancestors flutter near the Lord God. “Hmm. I created all the others as pairs, as partners. Adam needs someone like him too.”

    The Lord God takes a rib from Adam as he sleeps and closes the cut. Adam wakes up to find a woman standing before him. He names her Eve. Like the rest of creation, their bodies have no covering.

    For a while, harmony reigns. The people spend their time playing with the animals. As baby animals are born, Eve checks them all out, petting parents and newborns alike. Adam likes to teach the animals to do tricks. The wolf learns to fetch a stick. Adam, of course, throws farther than Eve, so she throws more often. The horses learn to carry them wherever they want to go, sometimes slowly, other times they run. Our ancestors flutter around the garden, enjoying the sunshine and sipping nectar from the flowers.

    Then one day, things change. The two people are riding the horses, Eve in front. She turns and laughs at Adam. For some reason, Adam takes it as a challenge. Is her horse faster than his? How can he make his horse catch up and pass her?

    For the first time, his stallion feels heels beating his sides. Startled, he runs faster, passing Eve and her mare. Adam turns and laughs at Eve. Competition has been born.

    Another day, Eve asks Adam a question. “You said we shouldn’t eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. What does ‘knowledge’ mean?”

    Thinking he has already explained the rule to her, he answers curtly, “It’s what you know, dummy.”

    Whether she knows the word “dummy” or she recognizes the emotion behind the tone of voice, she drops her head and walks away before asking him about “good” and “evil.”

    A few days later, Adam suggests another contest: who can lift the most one-handed? They find big rocks and take turns. Adam starts with smaller ones which Eve has no trouble lifting. The bigger ones cause her more difficulty. Finally, she can no longer lift the rock he has given her. Enraged, she grabs it with both hands and throws it as far as she can.

    Unfortunately, she does not look where to throw it safely, and the rock hits the head of a young lion in the bushes, killing it instantly. The two stop their game and walk away.

    A few days later, the serpent sidles up to Eve on his four legs. He has seen and heard the change in the relationship between the man and the woman. He hopes to take advantage of it.

    “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”*

    She shakes her head. “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’ ”*

    The serpent scoffs. “You will not certainly die, for God knows that when you eat from it, your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

    That was the other question she wanted to ask Adam. Maybe he didn’t answer the first because he didn’t know either.

    The serpent plucks an apple and holds it out to her.

    Eve thinks for a moment. Would this be a way to find out about “good” and “evil”? Was it important to know? And what does “die” mean?

    Just then Adam appears. “I’ve been looking for you. Let’s go for a ride. Maybe your mare can beat my stallion this time.”

    Still thinking about “good” and evil,” Eve takes the apple and bites into it. As she chews, she realizes that what Adam says sometimes makes her feel bad, and that hurting another person is evil. He should know that too, so she hands the apple to him.

    Adam hesitates. The Lord God said not to eat it, but the words “good,” “disobedience” and “evil” are not yet in his vocabulary.

    He looks at the serpent, who nods and smiles at him. Maybe this will take the two people off God’s special list, and they will be treated like everyone else.

    When Adam chews his bite of the apple, he looks at Eve. She’s naked! A new feeling surges through him as he drops the apple.

    “We’re naked,” he tells Eve. “We shouldn’t be! We have to make coverings for ourselves.”

    The two gather fig leaves and sew them together.

    Our first butterfly ancestors are confused. They don’t see any animals or birds or sea creatures wearing any outer layers. In fact, our ancestors feel they are beautiful the way they are. Nor would many of the other creatures want to cover the beauty the Lord God gave them.

    But Adam and Eve look at each other, now “properly” covered. “That’s better,” says Adam. That feeling when he first realized she was naked does not return.

    Shortly thereafter, they hear the sound of the Lord God walking through the garden. Adam grabs Eve. “Quick! We have to hide. The Lord God will know what we did.” They duck behind some bushes.

    The Creator calls out in a lilting voice, “Where are you?”*

    Adam hesitates, but he stands up and pulls Eve up beside him. “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; so I hid.”*

    The tone of the Divine Voice changes. “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?”*

    Adam looks down at his feet and then at Eve. “The woman you put here with me—she gave me some fruit from the tree, and I ate it.”*

    The blame game has begun.

    Her new sense of guilt fills Eve as the Lord God asks, “What is this you have done?”*

    She looks down at her feet and then at the serpent standing by the tree. “The serpent deceived me, and I ate.”*

    Two can play that game.

    The serpent looks around. There’s no one else to blame. Maybe the Tree? No, the Lord God won’t believe that.

    With the serpent’s curse, his long legs curl up and disappear, leaving his belly smooth and flat on the ground. He slithers away.

    Eve receives the curse of severe pain in childbirth and being ruled over by her husband. Adam’s curse is thorns and thistles in his crops. Finally, they hear the explanation of the word “die.” “For dust you are, and to dust you will return.”

    God is angry, but these are the first people. They do not know better. God takes the hide from the dead lion and creates clothing for them.

    But, of course, Adam and Eve may not stay where they are.

    Before this, Adam just drops seeds into the ground, and they grow. Fast, so everyone can eat, because back in my aunt’s story, the Lord God limited their food to every seed-bearing plant and every tree with fruit with seed. Not just for Adam and Eve, but for all God’s creatures: lions and lady bugs, bears and bees, cats and caterpillars. Only plants and the fruit of trees for food for all of them.

    But after the apple, weeds appear wherever he plants his seed: thorns and thistles, dandelions and dock, poison ivy and poison sumac, and many others.

    As everyone leaves the garden, the Lord God takes my two ancestors aside. “I feared this might happen. That’s why I created you. I’m giving you a special power, to change the direction of a storm. But not just a weather storm. You can suggest good solutions to their problems and warn them when they make bad choices, changing the storms they create.”

    But we don’t have mouths. We can’t speak.

    “No, do just like you’re doing with me, through your thoughts.”

    Will they listen to us?

    The Lord God offers them a sad smile. “About like they listened to me. … Now catch up with them.”

    My ancestors flew past the animals, past the cherubim wielding a flashing sword, and fluttered near Adam and Eve.

    “I told you we shouldn’t do that.”

    Eve’s butterfly tries out her new power.

    Eve, tell him blaming someone else is a sin. He had a choice. Both of you did. And you each made bad ones.

    Eve turns to Adam. “Adam, blaming someone else is a sin. You had a choice. We both did. And we each made bad ones.”

    But you can each help each other do better.

    “But we can help each other make better choices.”

    And sometimes they did, but other times they didn’t.

  • Butterfly Creation

    Blue morph butterfly on anthimium (flaming flower).

    Genesis 1

    In the beginning, butterflies are only a gleam in God’s eyes. God’s Spirit flutters over the waters of chaos. God determines to create order.

    Day 1: Not that God cannot see, but the creatures about to come into existence will need light. God coaxes the light out of the darkness and separates them into day and night.

    “Ah, good! I can’t wait to create butterflies, but I have work to do first.”

    Day 2: Not all of God’s creatures, especially butterflies, will want to live in the water, especially the waters of chaos. God creates a vault, a dome, between the waters above and the waters below.

    “Ah, good! Now the butterflies will have a space to spread their wings.”

    Day 3: But non-water creatures need something to stand on, not to swim in, so God separates the water into seas, apart from the dry ground.

    “Ah, good. Now the butterflies will have a place to rest.”

    Then comes the beginning of life, vegetation first—the seed-bearing plants and trees to bear fruit.

    “Ah, good. Butterflies and others will need food.”

    Day 4: Two great lights fill the sky, but not together. They determine day and night, as well as the sacred times. With a flick of the wrist, God scatters the stars, tiny lights, into the dome. Slits in the dome let rain fall from the waters above. “Ah, good. Now my creatures will know the seasons. Butterflies will know when to fly south and when to return north.”

    Day 5: The fun begins. God starts with water creatures, from the microscopic amoeba to the giant blue whale, God’s biggest creation. God creates them in pairs so they can be fruitful and multiply, in a variety of families we would call species. Then come butterflies, birds and other winged creatures to roam about in the sky.

    And God smiles. “Ah, good. Finally, I have butterflies. Aren’t you beautiful? And so many different colors and sizes?”

    Day 6: The next effort brings forth the land animals: livestock and wild animals. God hesitates. “No, I have one more job. Butterflies and all my other creatures need someone to admire them and take care of all of them.”

    God’s final creation culminates in human beings, male and female, special creatures, made in the image of God to appreciate all God has accomplished.

    God gives instructions for these last creatures. They are to treasure the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, the livestock and the wild animals. And to all of God’s creatures, to all of God’s families: butterflies, humans, animals, birds in the sky, and those living on the ground—God gives them for food all the green plants: all the seed-bearing plants and the trees.

    God stretches out a hand, and on it lands a Monarch butterfly. God leans forward and gently touches an antenna. Raising the other arm in joy, a whisper escapes. “Ah, very good.”

    Day 7: God rests, observing all of Creation. The butterflies flutter around the two special creatures, who smile at them. Good. They will treasure the butterflies. God laughs at the dolphins jumping in the ocean, the otters playing in the river, the koala bears chewing the eucalyptus leaves, the monkeys swinging in the branches, the dogs chasing their tails, the zebras romping with the lions, the bears cuddling with the lambs, and two-legged caretakers teaching the wolves to fetch.

    And God smiles.