(We have three boys.)
Many times I'll be
(I try very hard to always answer such summons no matter what I'm doing. I'm never disappointed.)
Last week it was a bit fat caterpillar. Our camera was out of batteries when said caterpillar arrived on our doorstep, but the above picture from BugGuide.net is pretty darn close. The same cute little black butthead, the same fuzzy fur. Ours was perhaps a little more vibrant yellow - but you get the idea.
We named our caterpillar Hungry. Because Hungry he obviously was. He never wandered far from our front door and we always said goodbye to him on our way to the car. He let us watch him for half-hours at a time. We had a pet. (And best of all, no cleanup!)
Then last Sunday we noticed Hungry had left his comfort zone and was exploring the garage wall. We watched him find a spot he liked, hang upside down, and do a funky thing with his butt to secure himself there.
It was pretty cool.
Three hours later we came home to find THIS:
Now every day Da Boyz and I check on him. We have endless talks about caterpillars-turning-into-butterflies and high hopes of seeing it in action. (We'll see.)
Hungry is part of our daily prayers. Little Prince, especially, blesses him to become "a beautiful butterfly like on Bug's Life." Now that's faith.
And I can't help but think about our own metamorphoses. How each of is constantly growing, changing, and evolving into something beyond our imagination. I don't know if Hungry realizes what will happen. I know he felt compelled to shut himself up for a few weeks. I'm bettin' his transformation is uncomfortable - maybe even painful.
Was he scared when he sewed himself up into darkness? Will he be surprised when he comes out? Will he be confused? Will he still know himself?
I'm guessing yes to all of the above.
But I know he won't be disappointed, either.
May we each murmur a little less about the cocoon, and be a little more grateful for the butterfly.
The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the
Master calls the butterfly. Richard Bach