Perhaps It's Just a Butterfly
I see yellow-and-black butterflies often. Sometimes one floats past while I’m outside. Other times, one appears when my thoughts have wandered to my son Jason. I always stop and watch it. Sometimes, the butterfly seems to follow me from the front to the backyard.
I don’t believe the butterfly is Jason visiting me. I don’t believe my son has become a butterfly or that he’s sending me a message through it. Still, when one appears, especially when I’m missing him, I receive it as a small kindness from God.
Perhaps it’s simply a butterfly.
But even an ordinary butterfly can become a reminder that God knows what’s happening inside a grieving mother’s heart.
Many people, who’ve lost someone they love, notice certain things again and again. It may be a cardinal landing nearby, a feather appearing in an unexpected place, a particular song playing at just the right moment, or a rainbow emerging after a difficult day. Sometimes it’s a familiar fragrance, a certain flower, or a coin found on the ground.
Some people believe those are signs or visits from the people they’ve lost. Others consider them coincidences. I understand the longing behind both perspectives. When we miss someone desperately, we want reassurance that the person we love is safe. We want to know that the relationship did not simply disappear when that person died.
For me, the yellow-and-black butterfly is not a message from Jason. Instead, it feels like a gift from God. It reminds me that God sees me. He knows when Jason is on my mind. He knows when I need a little encouragement to make it through the day.
Perhaps the butterfly is even an answer to a prayer I didn’t know how to express. Maybe it’s God giving me a small blessing because He knows I need one.
Jesus said that not even a sparrow falls to the ground without our heavenly Father knowing. He then reassured His followers that they are far more valuable to God than many sparrows. (Matthew 10:29–31, NLT)
If God notices a sparrow, He notices a butterfly. More important, He notices the grieving person who stops to watch it.
Grief makes us attentive. Someone else may see a butterfly and continue walking. A grieving mother may pause because love has trained her heart to notice reminders. That doesn’t make her foolish or spiritually confused. It makes her human.
Creating a Place to Remember
Some people find similar comfort by creating a memorial space in their home or garden. They may plant a tree, grow their loved one’s favorite flowers, place a bench beneath a shady tree, or arrange photographs and meaningful objects on a special shelf.
These spaces give them somewhere to sit, remember, cry, pray, and feel connected to the life they shared.
Both of my children are buried in other states, so I don’t have a gravesite nearby where I can go and sit. I have also never created a designated memorial space in my home or yard. Perhaps that’s one reason I notice the butterflies. My place of remembrance is not confined to a cemetery, garden, or particular corner of my home.
The reminders find me wherever I am.
For someone else, a memorial garden may provide a place for grief to rest. For me, it may be a yellow-and-black butterfly passing through my day. Neither expression has to be a shrine or an attempt to remain trapped in the past. It can simply be a tangible way of saying, “This person lived. This person was loved. This person will always matter.”
We each find different ways to carry our memories. One person visits a cemetery. Another tends a garden. Someone else wears a special piece of jewelry or keeps a photograph beside the bed. I notice butterflies and hot air balloons.
There’s no single correct way to remember.
At the same time, I want my comfort to remain rooted in God rather than in whether a butterfly appears. There will be days when I don’t see one. That doesn’t mean God has forgotten me or that Jason is any less safe in His care.
My hope doesn’t depend on a sign.
Still, when that familiar yellow and black fluttering crosses my path, I don’t have to analyze it or decide whether something supernatural has happened. I also don’t have to dismiss the moment as meaningless.
I can stop, watch its wings, think of my son, and quietly say, “Thank You, God. I needed that today.”
Perhaps it’s just a butterfly.
Perhaps that’s enough.
Prayer
Father,
Thank You for the small comforts You place along our path. Help us recognize Your kindness without depending on signs for our hope. When memories bring both love and sorrow, remind us that You see us, You stay with us, and the people we love are never beyond Your care.
Amen
