On my way into Stowe Hall in the morning, I’ll stop to watch the goldfinches, hummingbirds, and tiger swallowtails enjoy the flowering shrubs outside.
If you’ve never seen a Tiger Swallowtail caterpillar, they look nothing like their metamorphosed selves. Green and oddly lopsided, with weird eyespots at the bulbous end of their body, these critters might give us a puzzled moment of pause, but they probably won’t fill us with the same awe as delicate, yellow wings trimmed in black lace.
So after watching those adult swallowtails in the flowers outside Stowe, I started thinking about the difference between those goofy, green creatures and their elegant counterparts. In grade school, I learned that when a caterpillar builds its cocoon and goes through metamorphosis, its body actually melts down within the protective pod, forming a disconcerting, caterpillar soup, rich with preserved genetic code. And it’s from this liquified mess that an apparently new creature flowers into completion, essentially from the cells up. One form becomes another, but it’s a much more radical process than I’d imagined as a child.
This caterpillar being recreated anew is what happens when we say “yes” to God in the present, even in small ways. We take all the jumbled contents of our past and actually perfect them, or, rather, allow God to perfect them. Even the wanderings, which, after all, influenced the people we are today, get poured into the present affirmation, informing it and finding in its “yes” a redeeming mercy.
As I watched the lovely wobble of butterflies in the flowers, I realized that when we give ourselves wholly to God, He makes use of everything we are and have, transforming it. The fresh form, our new life in Christ, might feel entirely different, but no part of our past experience is wasted. Even those times in our lives we may consider now with embarrassment or shame: He can make everything work to the good, to today’s beautiful metamorphosis.
Wishing you hope and bright wings!
