A Butterfly Flapping

Category: Genesis

Stories from Genesis, Creation, Adam and Eve

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.