Perhaps you may have read an earlier entry, Caterpillar Soup, that I posted back in May. In it, I compared the state of my life at the time to what actually goes on inside a cocoon when a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly. I used to think that a caterpillar simply sprouted butterfly wings. Not so. In reality, the caterpillar melts down completely into a mess of disgusting goop, and special cells that had been dormant until then come to life, use that goop to nourish themselves, and grow and merge into the adult butterfly.
Yes, I had melted down completely. I was a disgusting mess. Nothing in my life was certain or secure, and I had no idea what to do with the chaos and confusion within and around me.
Fast forward a few months. Life has settled into a new normal. I am in a better place than I was, albeit certainly not a place I want to remain for very long. Life still feels transitional, and I am still unsure of the direction I will ultimately end up going and the person I will end up becoming.
If I could describe myself over the past 6 months in one word, I would use the word pensive. Even when surrounded by coworkers and family and friends, a small part of me has been perpetually withdrawn, alone with my deep thoughts and emotions. I have been using this time to face who I have become along the bumpy and treacherous roads I have chosen in the past. I have examined some of the many wrong turns and choices, and identified some of the damage done to myself and others. I have made some peace, and uncovered some deeper pain. But there is a theme here…some.
As much as I’ve been pensive, I’ve also been busy. Very busy. All of that busyness and chaos and noise quickly began to infect my introspection and turn it ugly. Exhausted and overwhelmed introspection can quickly become depression, discouragement, and cynicism.
So I did what I’ve never been good at before. Rather than just tell myself to suck it up and deal with it, I admitted I was exhausted and overwhelmed and did something about it. I took a vacation. Alone.
Yesterday was my first day in the beautiful Ozarks in Missouri. It’s a strange destination, I know, but it is far enough away from my busy suburban existence where I am constantly in motion but never seem to “catch up”. Here, there is nothing to race around for. There is fresh air and mountains and nature trails and lakes. It is peaceful. It is quiet. It is not in a hurry.
I spent my first day here hiking around Table Rock Lake. It was a perfect day. The water was clear, the sky was blue, the day was warm, and the breeze was cool. But something unexpected met me on that long walk around the lake. Butterflies. Dozens of butterflies.
In the peace and quiet and beauty of my surroundings, I was able to do what I came out here to do. I was able to think. What I thought about was Caterpillar Soup. I asked myself where I was in my own transformation, and the immediate and brutally honest answer was stunted. I had made some important changes, and learned some important lessons. But I had also avoided some of the more difficult things that I didn’t want to deal with.
As I watched the butterflies, it occurred to me that I couldn’t call what they were doing “flying”. They were flitting. Dancing. They seemed light and unburdened and if I had to guess, I’d say they were entirely enjoying their existence. As I watched them, I had to admit that I definitely haven’t emerged. What was taking me so long?
I immediately thought about a story I’d heard where a boy was watching a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. He wanted to help and cut the cocoon open, but when the butterfly emerged it had a swollen body and small, shriveled wings. It turned out that the butterfly’s struggle out of the cocoon is what pushes the fluid out of its body and into its wings, and strengthens it to fly. Without the struggle, it cannot become what it was meant to be.
Personally, I’ve never liked a struggle.
I didn’t want to think about it so I changed the subject (which is really easy to do when you are conversing with yourself). I kept on hiking, and taking pictures, and made it back to the starting point with enough time to watch the sunset. It was glorious. But it reminded me of another story about a struggle, and this one was harder to forget.
Genesis 32 tells the familiar story of Jacob wresting with God, but far fewer people know that story in its context. In Genesis 31, God tells Jacob that he has worked as his uncle’s servant long enough, and He sends him back to the promised land. There is a problem, though. In order to get there, Jacob must cross through his brother Esau’s territory. The last time Jacob had seen Esau, he had just deceitfully stolen both his birthright and his blessing from their blind and dying father, and Esau was going to kill him. That was why Jacob had fled to his uncle in the first place. Twenty long years had passed, but Jacob was still terrified of his brother’s wrath. When he heard that Esau was coming to meet him with 400 men, he divided his possessions among the company traveling with him, to be given as gifts to his brother. He sent them all ahead of him, one group at a time, hoping that the gifts brought by his company would appease his brother’s wrath. Lastly, it says, that at night he sent his wives and children with whatever he had remaining across the river, and he himself remained there alone.
That was when the real struggle began. And sitting there alone, with no one and nothing around me, watching the last of the sunlight disappear behind the mountains on the other side of the lake, it all began to make sense. Jacob wrestled with God until daybreak, refusing to let go until He blessed him. There is plenty of theological discussion (i.e. argument) about what this passage really means. Without getting into that, here’s what it meant to me last night.
I tend to agree with the teaching that Jacob wasn’t wrestling against God (because really, how absurd is it to imagine that any human being could possibly outmatch God in hand to hand combat?). He was wrestling with God against himself. He knew that come daybreak, he had two choices. He could cross the river alone and face his oldest and greatest fear, or he could abandon his family and possessions, and tuck tail and run back to his uncle. I don’t know what it was in Jacob that was holding him back, but I know that he and God wrestled with it until daybreak, and together overcame it. I know this because when Jacob sees Esau and his men coming the next morning, he doesn’t hide behind his family anymore, but passes on ahead of them to meet his brother head on.
I may not know what it was in Jacob that held him back, but I do know what it is in me that holds me back. I know what my Esau is, and I know that I can’t run and hide forever.
I also know that I’ve outgrown the cocoon, and it’s time to struggle my way out. Do you know how you can tell when a butterfly is almost ready to emerge? The cocoon becomes transparent, and you can see the color from its wings through the chrysalis.
I’ve gotten a glimpse of who I can be, and I know that what lies between here and there is a great big struggle. It’s a struggle against the things within me that still hold me back. But as I watched the sun set over the lake last night, it was as if God was reassuring me that it’s not a struggle I have to go through alone, because He will be there to wrestle with me against the things I cannot defeat alone.
In the Little Things 