“Look up there,” I whispered to Luna, my four-year-old grandniece. We were exploring the backyard while the adults were visiting inside. “You can show me Roo’s (Luna’s great-grandmother) patio and yard,” I said as I leaned down, grasping her fingers in mine.
So Luna took me on a tour, and I invited her to find treasures. I let her be the guide. We passed up a small, faded rubber ball that had lost its bounce long ago, ignored a chewed-up dog’s toy, and prayed over a dead bird.
Then, I saw it.
“Up there, Luna,” I repeated. “Look again, do you see it?”
A butterfly’s chocolate-colored wings camouflaged it against the house’s brown brick wall. Large circles with different shades of blue decorated the butterfly’s wings, footed with orange and topped with narrow white markings that added a distinguished flair.
Squinting her eyes, Luna studied the rhythm of the butterfly’s wings as it lazily basked in the sunlight.
“See how it blends in with the brick? That’s how it protects itself. You have to look to see it.”
Her open-mouth grin flashed an ah-ha moment.
“What do you want to name it?”
“Polka Dot,” Luna said, attracted by the butterfly’s circular wing decorations.
We certainly weren’t the first to sense the power wrapped in a butterfly’s technicolored beauty. Butterflies have inspired many a soul, from the fortunate ones breathing in the fresh air of freedom to the downtrodden suffocating in despair.
Pavel Friedmann, a Jewish Czechoslovakian poet, was one of those who discovered a butterfly in the most awful of places—a Nazi concentration camp. Friedman was murdered at Auschwitz a couple of years after he wrote a moving poem about a butterfly. “For seven weeks I’ve lived here,” Friedman wrote at Theresienstadt concentration camp on June 4, 1942, before the Nazis transferred him to Auschwitz. “Penned up inside this ghetto…”
The poem “The Butterfly,” describing a butterfly’s magnificent power and beauty against the backdrop of the concentration camp’s horrors, concludes with the haunting lines, “That butterfly was the last one/Butterflies don’t live in here/In the ghetto.”
His poem was found posthumously, Friedmann having died on September 29, 1944, in Auschwitz. Years later, the poem would inspire the Butterfly Project at the Holocaust Museum in Houston, Texas, where an exhibition of 1.5 million paper butterflies created by children represents the number of children murdered in the Holocaust.
The Project’s Executive Director, Keren-Dee Hamui, writes on the project’s webpage: “I do not take lightly the seriousness of this moment as we witness the relentless incidents of antisemitism, Holocaust denial, and hate-fueled bullying against other marginalized groups in our communities. We must take action now.”
Holding Luna’s hand, I don’t feel like I’m taking action. But, maybe—just perhaps—introducing a child to the wonders of a butterfly, as counterintuitive as it seems, could be a powerful antidote against hate, bullying, and even antisemitism.
Jesus not only loved in response to hate, he also showed us the importance of embracing life, the world around us (“See how the flowers of the field grow” Matthew 6:28 ), and children (“Let the little children come to me,” Matthew 19:14).
Thinking of Friedmann, and millions of others like him, including children, whose lives were cut short, I pray that connecting with God’s creation in something as simple and complex as a butterfly can help us remember—even as we observe the hatred of antisemitism still in full bloom— so we can take action, each on our unique way, insuring that the lives of all little children are valued, secure in a place where butterflies can live.
For that moment, I dared not attempt to explain the process of metamorphosis from caterpillar to butterfly or teach her a lesson on the pain that comes with growth—much less warn her of the world’s dangers and evils.
We had found a treasure in Polka Dot, saving our backyard venture from the disappointment of deflated balls, chewed-up dog toys, and dead birds.
And that was enough for this one venturous moment with a bright-eyed four-year-old.