A Butterfly Flapping

Author: Carolyn

  • 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. “Egyptians consider them carriers of the soul. But I haven’t seen one since they brought me here to the palace. Maybe slaves don’t …”

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

    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.

    Their two butterflies debated. Should Isaac’s tell him what was going to happen? Sarah’s shook her head. Follow Abraham’s lead. He’s not saying anything.

    The preteen1 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, but away from the tent.

    “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 wanted to shout, but she didn’t want Isaac to hear. Their butterflies nearby also argued with each other.

    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 waved her arms. “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, her butterfly staying outside. Picking up their sleeping blanket, Sarah 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. Her 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 ground 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, with the butterfly circling around her, Sarah found some peace. She wondered if this winged creature really 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.

    Back in the tent as the moon appeared, 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. Did the moments of peace have anything to do with the butterfly nearby? But after a short time, she would wake with a start, shaking in fear.

    At dawn on the third day, 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 understood the rage. 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 as the one with her? How could her butterfly be there with Isaac’s and Abraham’s?

    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 with a third butterfly, the one that looked like hers. Did they 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!” 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!” She turned her plea to God. “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 this time, as she waited, she watched 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.

    The butterfly, seeing she had an audience and wanting to distract her person from her fears, put on a show of acrobatics for the woman, diving, shooting up, flying in circles. She even tried to fly upside-down, but gave that up as Sarah actually laughed.

    At noon, the mother 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 as the sun dropped. 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 rose, 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, to this place. 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! Her vision did not allow her to count the figures. The shorter one, was that the donkey? She squinted into the sun, but she could not tell. As the sun dropped toward 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 safe. 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 and thanking God for his safe return.

    —–

    1 The scripture does not give an age for Isaac, but if he carries the wood later on that the donkey is carrying now, he’s not a young child.

  • Saving Baby Boys

    Exodus 1:15-21 (NIV)

    The women walked slowly out of the palace. They did not pay attention to the yellow pansy butterflies 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?”

    Shiphrah reached out to her younger 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?

    A smile on her face, 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 butterflies 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 butterflies again. She was about to comment on their 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 butterflies 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 big 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?”

    A 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. Then, arms stretched out to encompass all of creation, God whispers, “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.

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