The Majesty of the Monarch

 I sauntered through the screen door into my familiar backyard that late, slow September afternoon. The door didn’t latch, but swung both ways, allowing me to slip out unnoticed until its screech sold me out to my younger brother who wasn’t far behind

By the age of twelve, I had gone through the door running from boredom so often, I would never have remembered this time. Except, in the middle of that ordinary warm day, the unbelievable happened.

At first I saw one, which surprised me. Then I saw hundreds, maybe thousands more, and I was awestruck.

The trees were made of butterflies. 

 Majestic monarch butterflies had engulfed the tire-swing oak, the elm by the doghouse, the cottonwood leaning over the shed. On every tree, leaves and limbs were not visible, only vibrant orange, vivid gold, and velvet black. Massive clouds of delicate flighted creatures. It was an extravagant sight. Even a single butterfly would have been a gift on our prairie farm where a robin or squirrel seemed out of place. 

My brother and I both stood silently, heads tilted upward toward the soft hum of the fluttering tree clouds. I didn’t know how long our visitors would be staying. I didn’t know why they’d come. All I could take in at that moment was the grandeur of their arrival.

No one will ever believe this. I’m not even sure I do.

For about two seconds, I considered darting to my dresser drawer to dig for my Kodak Instamatic. Uncharacteristically, I stayed. And my brother took his cues from me.

We steeped in a sight we had never seen before, and likely never will again. My brother and I glided through the yard, eyes on the trees, spinning around to absorb the encompassing glory. 

And then, long before we were ready, the butterflies were gone.

Over the years following the butterfly event, I’ve discovered that this is how life’s wonders often unfold. They sneak in at first, on a covert mission to disrupt our mundane lives. But then, when we start looking for them, we become immersed and changed, just as the wonder slips away into a memory.

I later learned those monarchs were on a migration that would consume their lifespan. 

Migration means movement from one part of something to another. Sometimes physical, sometimes not. It happened for the monarchs, and because of them, it happened for me. It didn’t all take place that September afternoon, but an experience was ingrained in me that started my migration. Or at least the awareness of a need for one.

I am hard-wired to record events, often at the expense of experiencing their wonder. 

I’m glad I didn’t have a cell phone back then, or any camera within reach. Even a sixth-grade me would have focused on capturing the moment, and missed the memory. As aware as I am of this tendency now, I have still missed living many memories because I was on the wrong side of a camera lens: my daughter’s first steps, my son’s Kindergarten play, the last glimpse of my mother’s smile.

But I am indebted to the monarchs. Because without them, there would have been so many more.

The full-color memory of the butterfly encounter pulls me into that experienced wonder, and helps keep my recording-tendency in check.

Even if I had been able to covertly capture a photo of the magnificence that landed outside my childhood home that autumn afternoon, it wouldn’t do the real event justice. Like the times I tried to photograph the Grand Canyon, or a double rainbow, or our town’s fireworks display.

To be honest, after first taking in the winged wonders, even after I dismissed the camera idea, I wanted to dash back inside to summon my mother. Later in life as my brother and I recalled the event, we learned we both had an unspoken need for an adult lens, or at least an adult filter. But no one else came through the screen door in time to see our visitors that day.

And turns out, that’s okay. If I’d found my mother, she may have been too late anyway. If I’d located a camera, it might have been out of film. If I’d taken a snapshot, we’d never be able to find the photo now.

Being stuck in the wonder of the butterfly invasion was a gift. It gave me permission to experience the memory. When I feel the pull to document too much of life, I recall the freedom I felt in simply living that moment.

And I am thankful for how the butterflies’ lifelong migration started my own.

I often reflect on the unlikelihood that I would be standing in my backyard for the few minutes the monarchs visited. Turns out, the monarch migration is one of the great wonders of the insect world. Though I’ve learned they migrate in a similar pattern each autumn, I never saw them again on our farm or anywhere else, at least not in that number. And I’ve never met anyone who has.

There exists no tangible proof that it ever happened, except the memory that lives inside my little brother and in me. And I’m realizing that is the best place for wonders to be recorded. 

—Lori Ann

Lori Ann Wood lives in beautiful Bentonville, Arkansas, with her husband, the love of her life whom she found in 9thgrade. She is mom to three great young adults, one amazing son-in-law, and a miniature dachshund named Pearl. Lori Ann currently serves as founding leader of the Parenting Education Ministry at the church of Christ in Bentonville. She also serves as WomenHeart Champion Community Educator for Arkansas and American Heart Association Ambassador. Lori Ann’s work has been published in numerous print and online venues, including The Christian Century, Just Between Us, The Joyful Life, Bella Grace, Pepperdine University Press, and yahoo.com. Having discovered a serious heart condition almost too late, Lori Ann writes to encourage others to find joy in the divine detours of life. Read more from her at loriannwood.com.