Ketchup and Butterflies

  
It’s been a long, hot summer here in north Georgia. And it was another stifling afternoon a couple of weeks ago as I waited for my older brother at our local cemetery. It was our late mother’s birthday and we were meeting at her gravesite to leave some flowers and do a bit of remembering. I sat in my car, grateful for the air conditioning and looked around. This is one of those old-fashioned places with lovely headstones and family memorials. I looked round at the familiar stones marking each person’s resting place. So many of them were names that I recognized. And on this September afternoon, the air was filled with butterflies.  

Little yellow butterflies are everywhere you look in our area every late summer day. They’re called “cloudless sulphur” butterflies and they migrate down the eastern U.S. this time of year. When you start seeing them, you know that summer is on the way out—even though, like this year, it may not feel like it. I sat in my cool car, watching dozens of them fluttering among the marble and the flowers, always heading south. Though it was a bittersweet day for me, I couldn’t help but smile at them, and remember. 

It was thirty years ago, on another hot summer afternoon. Mother and I were making homemade ketchup with some of her abundant homegrown tomatoes. This is a long process of cooking and stirring, cooking and stirring. Each batch takes several hours to make. The kitchen was like a furnace and every few hours, we’d take some iced tea and sit outside on the shady deck at the back of the house for a break. I just wanted the day to be over so I could take a cool shower and be done with all those tomatoes. But Mother was in her element, enjoying every minute of the process and so proud of the end product. It was she who pointed out the little yellow butterflies flying around in the shade around us. “Summer’s almost over when those little things show up,” she said, raising her tea glass to the butterflies. She told me how they migrated through our part of the world each year, something I’d never noticed before.  

But in the 14 years since her death, not a September has gone by that I don’t look for them. When they show up, I remember that “ketchup day” with her and I’m so very grateful for it, and for her. Now that I’m a lot older, I appreciate her love of the homegrown and the homemade. I value the work that goes into making something of quality, no matter the effort it might take. And I’d give anything in the world to have another day like that with her again. 

I’d come to the cemetery that afternoon feeling blue and a little weepy, trying to keep it together on another sad anniversary. But there I was, smiling at butterflies and remembering a wonderful day in my mom’s company. It’s amazing how deeply we can be touched by something as small as a butterfly’s wing.  

God made our world beautiful for us. He made colors and smells and sounds and tastes for our pleasure, not for Himself. And all that beauty draws our hearts and minds to the beauty of the One Who made it for us. Whenever we need a reminder of all the wonders around us, He gives it to us. His timing is always perfect. Whether it’s a sunset or a bluebird or a snowflake, or a little yellow butterfly—we can know that He holds us in the palm of His hand. He knows what we need before we do and He knew I needed to feel my Mother’s love again that day in the cemetery. And so, at her grave, He sent me little yellow butterflies.  

Declare His glory among the heathen, His wonders among all people.”

              —Psalm 96:3 

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