I miss this girl:
She was always on the move. And full of life. And creative. And fun. She had this ability to laugh uncontrollably sometimes. This skill for seeing some mundane event as outrageously funny — a talent for getting people to go along with some crazy idea that had woken her up in the middle of the night. Hey! when I count to three, let’s take a Kung Fu jump picture. Don’t think about it — don’t worry about all those other people on the Mall. Just Jump!
And jump they did:
Of course there’s that picture on her wall of her and her 5 male co-workers who she’d convinced to dress up as superheroes engaged in a Gotham-style fight at work one day. This girl — the one that I miss — could translate that humor to an email or blog post to amuse her friends and family or discuss it easily with strangers, making them into friends.
I miss that girl. I caught a whiff of her scent yesterday and whipped my head around to find her, barely catching a glimpse of her distinct profile before she turned the corner and disappeared again.
Sometimes I hear the faint echo of her raucous laughter in my own throat. . Or, I wake with the lively dreams of a stranger in my head. Sometimes my feet complete a rhythm that they learned long ago. It’s disorienting, yet so familiar. An out-of-body experience. Except this is my body. That girl is me.
But not exactly. I’m half caterpillar, half chrysalis — not quite a butterfly.
It’s not that I don’t want colorful wings and the ability to fly — I just don’t want to have to go into the chrysalis to get there. For such a beautiful word, a chrysalis seems a rather dark and gloomy place. Hard as a coffin and just as difficult to escape. What exactly are you supposed to do in there anyway? And how long is this going to take? Look, I was good — good enough — as a caterpillar! I did what caterpillars do and I laughed a whole lot more while I did it. Can’t we just skip all of this and get to the wings already??
But there is no skipping ahead in the metamorphosis. There is no such thing as time travel either. You cannot go back again. It is tempting to be like Lot’s wife, to look back (and get left behind in the process) longing for what used to be. I’ve got one foot in the chrysalis, but I keep lingering to stroke the fuzzy skin of that caterpillar because it is much easier than facing the darkened tomb of the chrysalis. But that path seems to be the only way to get to the person that God has called me to be.
Every single butterfly has to go through the chrysalis at some point. This will be no exception