Earlier this summer I discovered monarch caterpillars on a milkweed plant in our back yard. I was delighted. I sent pictures to the girls. Almost 32 and 28 years old, and 100 miles away, I wanted to share my joy.
It seems like a lifetime ago, but both girls had shared monarch-centric chapters with our family during Middle School. Both had similar science units involving the collection of monarch eggs, rearing the various instar larval stages on milkweed leaves, dutifully weighing droppings and measuring growth to document the development of the brightly-striped animals heading toward spectacular metamorphosis. Our family was intrigued. Something about the miraculous multi-generational annual migration of the species between Mexico and the Upper Midwest remains unbelievable. Something about the transition from caterpillar to beautifully bejeweled green chrysalis, the darkening of the chrysalis, and the emergence of a crumpled adult that pumps fluid into its wings to present itself as a spectacular butterfly – something about these things is inescapably lovely and mysterious.
And yet there is also a hint of tragedy. Monarchs are likely in the process of extinction before our eyes. Having established their life cycles and windward flights over countless millenia, their habitat is fragmented and their environment distorted by herbicides and insecticides. I have often wondered with sorrow how many more generations of human children will rear monarch butterflies in Middle School in the Midwest.
The next day I went to check the monarch larvae in the back yard and all had vanished, likely picked off by birds in spite of what we had always been told was an unpleasant monarch flavor attributable to the consumption only of milkweed leaves.
I found myself strangely saddened.
I let the girls know in a short text.
What followed was a spontaneous call to action. Both daughters expressed their commitment to seek out local stands of milkweed, identify any minuscule monarch eggs on the undersides of leaves, and shepherd the lives of tiny larva in the safety of indoor containers with gathered milkweed leaves. Each girl found a few eggs and tiny larvae nearby and conscripted a friend or a husband to join the mission. Various stages of development were observed and shared by texted photos and video calls. Comparisons were made. Larvae were named. Release plans were discussed.
But it has been a bittersweet reunion with monarchs. The process has too often reminded us that metamorphosis is a complex process, full of risks and opportunities for failure. Few larvae have survived to take their turns in transition. Those that do can find ways to touch us deeply.
That happened yesterday.
My older daughter had documented the growth and development of a monarch caterpillar collected on Independence Day and duly named (without gender confirmation) ‘Libertina.’ Not long ago, having matured on her diet of milkweed leaves, Libertina climbed to the high mesh of her enclosure, quieted herself, and then engaged in the miracle that revealed the pupa within, which hardened to a lovely green chrysalis.
Patience.
Libertina hatched yesterday. My daughter shared a photo of Libertina hanging with her fully-developed wings unfurled and strong.
I received the photo on my phone while working in my office. My reaction surprised me. I found myself staring at the picture, overcome by a child-like sense of wonder at the beauty of this wonderful insect with its spectacular wings, poised to become a creature of flight in wind and air. I felt the emotion welling up in me. I found myself saying a prayer of thanks for the undeserved gift of sharing this world with living things such as this, carrying stories and complexities beyond beautiful.
Soon it was confirmed that Libertina had lived up to her name – she was a female.
But it was a hard day.
As evening came, word also came that Libertina was not doing well. She was not strong, her legs had not developed properly, she was unable to cling to her mesh.
She fell.
Frantic texts were sent and received. A loving friend helped arrange Libertina near freshly-cut watermelon slices. There was a valiant effort to help Libertina stretch out her tongue to taste the sweetness. There was hope for resuscitation of the beautiful insect with her beautifully open wings.
In the mid-evening word came the Libertina was gone.
She had never flown.
I felt so sad – so strangely sad. I walked alone to our dark back yard and just let myself cry.
So sad.
In my tears I found myself thinking about promises…
…and hope.
I thought about a story from more than 20 centuries ago. A promise. A description of a kind of unimaginable love and power and gentleness.
The Book of Matthew records these familiar yet mysterious words of Jesus –
“Aren’t two sparrows sold for only a penny? But your Father knows when any one of them falls to the ground.”
There is one who knows and loves and cares for all things, somehow.
All things.
I found myself remembering the one dream I have ever been given where I sensed that I was experiencing the other side – the promised place of restoration and timelessness. I have written about it in this collection.
What was perhaps most poignant about that special and fleeting dream was that my glimpse of heaven was a scene filled with evidence of living things.
Could it be that there is a place of restoration for all that has ever been created – all that will ever be created?
A place of celebration and reunion and forgiveness and freedom and completion?
A place where I will see Libertina flying high on a warm breeze…forever?
