The Butterfly Bush

It had gotten down to thirty-seven degrees when I left the house at 5:09 that afternoon to go for a walk.
The butterfly bush had always been there; eleven sidewalk blocks past the second bench, on the way to the old, deserted park, which was probably less than a quarter of a mile from my house.
I never paid any particular attention to it, but somewhere in my clustered mind there was a place for it. After all, it’d been there since I was born, and it had grown up with me. It was wild and unkempt, it reached a great height and spread a great length; it was constantly growing.
But recently they had cut it down to nothing but a trunk and a few bumpy roots curling in and out of the ground. That day when I walked past it, the sight saddened me regardless of its insignificance in my life.
Little had I known that this butterfly bush, in its simplicity and complexity, represented more to me than I imagined.

“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“What is that plant right there?” I said pointing at the small, delicate thing growing not too far from the bench.
“That’s called a butterfly bush.” My mother said.
“Why is it so little and ugly?”
“It’s a baby bush. It’s only starting to grow.”
“It’ll grow bigger then?”
“Of course it will. And not only will it grow bigger, it’ll grow stronger, and taller, and much more beautiful.”
“Really?” I asked with wonder.
“Really. And you’ll grow, too.”
“I’ll grow?”
“You’ll grow.”

And the butterfly bush grew indeed. Ever since the day the bush and I were introduced, I would walk by whenever the chance was given to me, and I watched how the butterfly bush grew.
As it always turns out, my mother was right. The butterfly bush grew large and beautiful. It bore soft green leaves and small purple flowers. The flowers were my favorite part of the bush. I would often reach out and touch their velvety skin. I did not dare to pick a flower; I did not want to take away the beauty.
Though I did not think of it then, I was growing as well. I never pondered whether I was bearing any fruits, or doing anything for the better of the people around me. I was an innocent child who, like the rest, tested my limits and always asked “why.” A very important thing sprang from my childhood, and that was Christianity. Being so young, I knew few things of Christianity. I knew God loved me, and that I loved Him; He was my protector, and I feared hardly anything because I knew He was there. I also knew that He had a son, Jesus, who died so that I could go and see God in Heaven when I died. I cherished only these things without worry about anything else.

“I don’t want to get a spanking.” My sister cried to me. I hated seeing her cry. He face swelled a little, and turned a pale shade of red. Her tears always seemed to fall, one too many.
“I don’t want you to get a spanking either.” I told her. But what could I do? I thought a bit, and an idea struck me.
Dad came upstairs for the punishment. Audrey cried even more. At the time I didn’t realize what I was doing. I only wanted Audrey to be happy.
“Dad, please don’t spank Audrey. Spank me.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong.” He told me.
“I don’t care. I want you to spank me instead of Audrey so Audrey doesn’t have to get one. Please do it.” I begged.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.” I told him, “I’m sure.”
He set Audrey aside and I turned around to receive Audrey’s punishment. I saw my father’s hand rise in the corner of my eye. I shut my eyes quickly and expected pain to come soon. The spanking did not come so I turned around and I saw my dad slapping his own thigh instead of mine, while his eyes brimming with tears.
Neither one of us had to take the punishment after that.

Was a five year old child supposed to know anything about sacrifice? I still cannot think of what brought me to do such a thing at that age. My parents are still emotionally aroused when the topic is brought up. They knew pain was my worst fear.

I do not know how old I was when I learned of my sister’s disease, neither had I known then the potential severity of the disease. My sister had been born with a rare disease called neurofibromatosis. In my eyes, she looked as normal as any other person I knew. In Audrey’s case, there was no physical evidence of her disease except for the café au le spots covering her arms and chest. Audrey, herself, did not know much about it, though she did make the best of what she had. She found one particular spot on her shoulder and said it was an angel’s kiss. Since then, we have all thought it an angel kiss that God gave especially for her.

I had wondered whether the butterfly bush ever had to cope with anything unfortunate. A bush was only a bush, but that fact had never stopped my wild imagination to think that perhaps it had a personality, also. Perhaps the butterfly bush had trouble growing sometimes, too.
Such thoughts pulsed through my brain as I ambled onward to the park. It was cloudy today; the sky looked nothing more than a giant bed sheet covering the sky. If I were in any other state, it would most likely be snowing. But no, this was North Carolina. I let the rough wind blow hard against me as I plunged into thought again.

I looked pretty today.
Today was picture day and I was certainly dressed for the occasion. Mom had curled my hair and put lipstick on me. I wore a purple dress with small floral print sown all over it, and I had on a pair of white pantyhose.
Yes, I looked very pretty.
I was assigned to sit by an older boy on the bus ride home. He was a third grader, and I was a second grader. I sat down in the seat beside him and greeted him quietly. I never said much to him because I was afraid of him.
Moments after I sat down, he placed his hand on my leg and slowly moved it up.
“Can I?” He asked. I did not know what he was doing. Fear kept me from uttering anything to him. He took the silence as a confirmation and continued moving up.
I did not know that what he was doing was wrong.
I did not know how to say “no.”
I just did not know.

The butterfly bush and I were very much alike. I endured many traumas in my life. Some may have made me weaker at the time, but a renewed strength was always gained.
I am sure the bush had to have held on tightly when thunderstorms came through. It must have used all of its might to stay strong and do its best to get through. I respected it for that. The bush and I were perseverant. The bush and I were stubborn. The bush and I both kept growing, even through harsh times.

Our family rarely sat down to have a nice dinner with each other.
We were not a torn family. We loved and supported each other, and communicated as much as we could, but work prevented us from having family dinners like tonight.
Somewhere in the conversation, my encounter with the MRI machine was brought up. It was a day of testing at Chapel Hill, and the MRI scan was the final test that needed to be done. I was willing to do it until I saw how large and loud the machine was.
“Do you remember the story, honey?” My mom asked me.
“’Course I do. I ran away and hid under a table in the waiting room and all the doctors tried to make me come out.”
“And do you remember what you did after that?”
“Yeah. I made myself get out and do the stupid test.”
“That wasn’t how it went.” My mom told me with pride.
“It wasn’t?”
“Nope. After a long time, you got out from under the table and walked over to where we were standing with all of the doctors and nurses. You looked at us and told all of us to turn around.”
“Why did I do that?”
“You didn’t want them to see you while you were praying.”

Even Christianity was a battle. Every day, I was tempted. It was the hardest thing to do—love and trust in a God that I could not see or hear. So when I got scared that I was losing faith, I looked back at those moments in my life when it was so simple for me to let God handle everything.
I reminded myself that there was always a child in me that believed God was with me forever, even in the worst of times. He was always there.

I liked the butterfly bush the most during the summer months. I would walk to the public pool up the street, and every time I passed the bush, a sweet aroma would fill up my nose. I would stand for a few seconds beside it to take it in, and then I would continue along my way. Also, in the summer the bush was most colorful, and not because of its flowers. The bright summer was what proved the butterfly bush true to its name. A fabulous variety of butterflies completely covered the large bush. They swarmed all around it and flashed their beautiful, intricately-designed wings.
Every butterfly was different, and the bush accepted them all.

Mac was very different from other people that I knew. Nevertheless, I loved him and prayed for him.
When we met at church recently after he had moved here, I never thought I would get to know him so thoroughly, and engage myself in such a wonderful friendship. Neither did I know the pain it would cause me to know so much about him and his terrible past.
Mac had divorced parents. He lived here, in North Carolina with his father and over time I discovered that Mac’s father was an alcoholic. Not only that, he was an abusive alcoholic. I also figured out that Mac had been involved with drugs and alcohol before. All of his life, he had to live in darkness.
After finding out such things, I made it a personal mission to help. I enjoyed most seeing him change and walk into light. It was a joy that could never be described. He delighted in the ways he was changing also. Many times he came to me and told me about what he did for God that day, smiling and gleeful like a small child when they have accomplished something good.
“I prayed today.” Mac said to me happily as he hung from the monkey bars. “I don’t know if God heard me, but I talked to Him.”
“God always hears you, silly.” I laughed.
“Today I asked God to help me with being so confused. I told him to help my dad change.” He paused. “And I told him to help me in Spanish class.”
We both laughed.
“I’m very proud of you.” I said.
He smiled.

It is true that we all live through our lives and change other people. What we sometimes do not realize is that throughout our lives, we are changed, too.

The wind began to halt and give me peace. I was nearing the second bench now. I had my hand deep in my coat pockets. My knuckles were numb and I squinted my eyes a bit to face the cold weather.

I have had many hard times throughout my life and I have had many glorious moments throughout my life. The fact of life is that it is always changing. We may not want it to, and we may not even know that it is, but in the blink of an eye everything becomes different. I have had to come to terms with this fact.
However, there is one thing that will never change.
God, He never changes.
He is still my guardian at night when I start to become frightened, and I am still his innocent child.

“Dear God,” I call out to the night, while I lay in my bed.
“Thanks for you and thanks for Jesus. Thanks for watching over me. Thanks for today, and thanks for yesterday, and thanks for tomorrow if you allow it to come. I pray for all of my family and all of my friends.
Please give me strength to live. Please give me patience to wait for good things. Please give me wisdom to choose the right things.
God, don’t ever give up on me.
I’m giving my trust to you.
I know I’m always your child, and I still believe now what I believed then; You love me, I love You, You gave me Jesus, and when I die, I’m coming to see You in Heaven.
Wait for me.
Amen.”

This was the spot. I had counted eleven sidewalk blocks past the second bench which was on the way to the old, deserted park, which was probably less than a quarter of a mile from my house.
I turned to a breathtakingly unexpected sight—
The butterfly bush was there.
Over where it had used to be, a new butterfly bush was growing. It was a baby bush, just as I had first seen it. It was small and frail and ugly. I could not help but smile at this simple thing I was gazing at.
Slowly, steadily, and stubbornly, the butterfly bush was growing.

I am growing, too.