Spiritual Growth: Discerning God's Guidance

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path. (Ps 119:105 KJV)

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Reflection: Butterflies & Saying Good-bye
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A student went to his teacher and posed a difficult question, “How do you know the will of God for your life?” The answer his teacher gave was very wise. He said, “God’s will can be compared to a ship sailing into the harbor on a dark night. There are bright lights on three buoys that must line up. When they do, the ship can sail into port safely. The lights represent truth that can be found in the opening and closing of doors in your life circumstantially; in the study of Scripture; and in the counsel that comes from mature people around you.” When they all agree, then you will know the will of God.

Sometimes God’s messages do come to me in threes like that. I’ve noticed that occasionally the same message is offered in different ways: as an event in my life; an image; as a printed word or series of words; out of someone's mouth in conversation (unbeknownst to them); or even as a gut feeling or racing heartbeat. I really have to be paying attention to make the connections. I think I am offered three similar messages when God is making a very important point.

Mourning the Loss of My Mother

For instance, in a sense, my mother died twice. When she died her natural death, I had already grieved her passing from my life several years before. She toppled from her pedestal as Mother, capital “M” after a big disappointment. My grief over the disappointment was transformed into peace by three important messages that were sent my way. And I was comforted by God’s tender presence in my loss.

A Necessary Transformation

I grieved Mom’s passing from my life when my daughter, Paula was pre-school age. It was a very hot summer, and quite unusual for our city. Paula was enrolled in a week-long “explorer” class at our local Science Center. The theme for the week was butterflies. On Monday, each budding naturalist was given a white lidded bakery box with a clear plastic window.

Paula brought her treasure home and she placed it on top of the antique oak dresser in her bedroom. Together we peeked through the cellophane. There we saw two gray butterfly crysalises suspended from the top of the box.

All week, we made sure there was water in a shallow cup inside the box. By Friday, two brilliant butterflies had emerged from their thin paper-like chambers. “Mom, it’s time to let them go!” Paula exclaimed excitedly late Saturday afternoon.

So we carefully carried the box out the kitchen door and down to our garden where we sat together on the lawn next to the swingset. Paula clambored between my outstretched legs, and then she steadied the box on her lap. We counted “One, two, three, go!” and she popped the lid open with a flourish.

With a few delicate flutters, the two butterflies rose up and away from us toward our mixed border of tall wildflowers. Paula was thrilled. She nestled back against my chest in delight. “Isn’t life wonderful?” she exclaimed joyously. That shared moment was thrilling for both of us.

Later, when I was getting ready to discard the box, I noticed a few drops of red blood-like liquid that marked the cardboard below each vacant crysalis. It must have been a painful metamorphosis, I concluded, and not easy at all. In fact, I thought, it must have been quite a struggle for those butterflies.

That evening, my mother called long distance on the phone. We agreed to meet for brunch the next day (Sunday) at a popular seafood restaurant in a town about two hours away. I was full of news about my children’s summer camps, activities, and accomplishments. And I was eager to share all of this with their Nana—someone who knew about what life was like with busy little people in the house. After all, who could relate better than my own mother?

Through my tears, I read the name of the vessel painted across the transom. It said: “Butterfly.”

I had saved up a lot to say that day, and I was excited about our visit. But I should have known better. As always, my mother’s need to talk was much greater than mine. She took up the entire four-hour visit, bursting with her own news. Mom was so hungry for a listening ear, that I didn’t have the opportunity to say one word. I wept all the way home.

Driving home on the freeway, I watched a small sailboat strapped to trailer pass by on my right. Through my tears, I my eyes were drawn to the name of the vessel painted across the transom. It said: “Butterfly.” Suddenly, I remembered the butterfly metamorphosis that Paula and I had witnessed the day before. And I realized that I too must undergo a painful transformation.

By the time I braked by the curb infront of our shuttered Cape Cod bungalow, I had gone through a profound change. I was transformed from a young woman with a mother, to a young mother with an older needy friend. At long last, I accepted the fact that my mother would never be the kind of nurturing Mom that I had always wanted and needed. At the same time, I also recognized another startling truth. I would never be the sophisticated, career-minded daughter that my mother had always wanted either.

About three days later, I received a nice thank you note from a friend I had been out to lunch with. The notecard was illustrated with an orange watercolor of a beautiful butterfly. With that final nudge from God, I knew there was no changing the facts. My hope of my mother, as Mother, was never going to become a reality. I allowed my girlish dream to die.

My relationship with Mom was much easier after that.
I let go of my expectations, anger and disappointment. And
I was finally able to freely give her the support that she so desperately needed as a struggling, middle-aged divorcee.

Our Parents Are Human

Perhaps our parents die twice for all of us. Maybe we mourn their passing as numinous figures when we finally see them for who they are: ordinary people with needs and wounds just like our own. If we don’t go through this transition, perhaps we should. Perhaps their deaths are much harder unless we do. At her death, I was very sad for mother, and all the things she had suffered. But I did not grieve her loss as my Mom with a capital “M” then.

Related

My in-depth articles “Knowing God’s Will: Guidance Guidelines” Part I and Part II might also be of interest to you.

Photos: BurnBlue, DaveParker & ZoeRochelle (Flickr)

Coming Up—How to Explain Gender Differences to Teens

How do you experience God's guidance?