The Dragonfly (And Why I Keep Its Symbol Around)

It has always been a personal delight for me to see symbolism in God’s creation. God is the greatest Artist there is, and in his design, I see revelation. I see evidence of his story told in the constellations in the sky, and in the blood-tipped white petals of the cross-shaped dogwood blossom. I see his mercy new each morning, illustrated in the smoothly washed sand when I’m the first person to hit the beach at sunrise. I wonder at his perfection every time the Fibonacci ratio makes its appearance again in yet another way, from biology to economics to architecture.

But one motif that keeps coming up in my life is found in the dragonfly. I think now, it’s time to tell about the dragonfly.

I grew up in the midlands of South Carolina on what was once my grandparents' farm. There’s always been a pond there, and around that pond for much of the year, one could always find dragonflies hovering, darting in and out. I’m not a big “bug” person, really. I don’t mind the little weevils in their sandy vortices that we would dig out as kids. I’m not big on actually touching crickets or grasshoppers, but for the most part, they don’t bother me. I simply cannot abide the presence of a spider though. Just being in the vicinity of one can push me close to the razor’s edge of insanity, fraught with panic and the soul-need for personal possession of napalm. But I’ve always liked dragonflies, never feared them, even sought them out when in a place they are likely to call home. I love their mechanical-looking bodies, reminding me of biological precursors to helicopters. I love the freedom with which they lift and take off, the unexpected speed, the complete lack of concern for gravity. I’ve never seen one crash. I also love the varied colors. What extravagance, that a simple bug would know what it is to offer up aqua and cobalt, royal purple and cardinal red, while moving at speeds often too fast for the human eye, at least, to follow!

A lovely art tile I spotted and could not afford. Clear evidence that others see the art in the dragonfly as well.

But the life of the dragonfly is really what makes this connection. The dragonfly lives most of its life underwater, in its nymph form. It doesn’t start there, though. A male and female dragonfly actually mate in the air. (OK, I think that in itself is pretty cool.) Then the female will lay her eggs in a pond or marsh and leave them. The eggs hatch and the nymphs may spend a season or several (up to four years) in that water. The nymphs are hideously ugly—brown and lumpy. Some appear to have a knot on the back, like a bent-over hunchbacked creature. Everything about them seems to imply being tied down, limited, bound to something less than that which they were meant for, considering they came from parents soaring above that condition in freedom. But the nymph doesn’t stay there. In time, when the days are accomplished, it will come up out of the water. The ugly brown exoskeleton will crack, and something totally new will emerge—the mature dragonfly, with, in many cases, vivid colors and more importantly, perhaps, the ability to fly. And away it goes, to its mature purpose of freedom and beauty and other-ness that the nymphs, I fancy, cannot possibly imagine.

I see a parallel in that for our lives. There is the before-knowing God imagery, in which we are lowly and bound and helpless, and can’t even see the purpose for which we were made. There is the idea of going into the water, not unlike baptism, and emerging a new creation, free to live the life more abundant. (I will here head off any objections, I hope, regarding baptism by immersion. I myself am, by choice, Presbyterian, and we pour or sprinkle rather than immerse, but I think both modes have validity that is supported in scripture. Remember that the ark which transported Noah and his family to salvation received the waters both from above, in the form of rain pouring down, and from below, when the deep rose up. Perhaps the two positions are even by God’s own design—as he does pour out his Spirit on us, but also calls us to die to self and rise again as one coming up from the depths of the tomb with Christ—and by arguing about the mode, we miss the greater point altogether.)

And then there is the end of earthly life transformation. The old, dead shell of the nymph remains behind, but the transformed creation lifts off and leaves the old world behind, at least for now, not unlike the spirit of a believer exiting the body at death. I see the metamorphosis like God’s promise to take his beloved to himself, even when the body has breathed its last. I see his faithfulness being promised in the example of the dragonfly.

So that is the background for this story, and how this motif has come to mean something to me. Earlier this week, I was in the traffic line waiting to pick up kids from school. A man from a car behind me got out of his car (in the pouring snow and sleet, no less) to come ask me what my license plate meant. I drive a bright blue Volkswagen New Beetle, and the plate reads DAMSLFLY. Next to it is a bright pink decal of a dragonfly, placed to replicate the angle of attack most creatures (but not the uniquely designed dragonfly) must take to achieve lift and break those surly bonds of earth.

And so, I told him the story of its significance to me. I summarized then, because of the cold and the terrible weather. Here, I am going to tell it in more detail.

 

 

One could just take the license plate at face value. DAMSLFLY is for “damsel/lady” and “fly” for “bug.” As a woman, I drive a VW bug, therefore it is the “ladybug.” That’s cute, perhaps, and sufficient. But it isn’t really what it’s all about.

Going on three years ago, my mother was in the hospital, near the end of her five-year battle with breast cancer. My family and I headed south to go see her. At the time we started out, we had no idea it would be the end. We did not even pack appropriate clothes for the days that were to come. Upon arrival, though, it was clear that in just the matter of the few hours it took to get to her by car, she was rapidly slipping away. She had moments of wakefulness, but her pain was great and her lucidity questionable. The next day, it was clear that the end was near. Very near.

My mother was the youngest of three children. Her older sister had passed away, also from cancer, six years before. My grandmother, however, was still living, having just celebrated her 100^th birthday less than five months before. She was in a nursing home where she could get the daily care she needed physically, but her mind was still sharp as it could be. There was no way to keep from her the information that her baby girl was not going to come home from the hospital. As the daughter in the family, and the one who had first told her that my mother had cancer, it was my role to go to Grandmama and break the news to her.

On that Saturday morning, I prepared to do just that. I remember that I lingered at my parents' house—one more cup of coffee first. I was dressed and ready to go, but a bit reluctant, dreading the tears and grief that I was about to introduce. Practicing the words, how I would hold her hand. And then, right as I was about to step out the door to go to her, the phone rang. My dear grandmother never had to hear the words spoken that her baby was not going to live. After waking that morning, she ate her small breakfast and leaned back, content they said. She closed her eyes, and peacefully breathed her last. On Saturday, July 9, Grandmama slipped into glory, just moments before I would have been arriving to bring her the worst news a mother can hear.

I see great mercy in that, even though it was accompanied by great grief and no small amount of shock, to lose one of the most influential and omnipresent women in my life right before the other.

We all spent as much time that day and the next with Mama as we could. On Sunday, as the day grew late, my father and brothers and all our family members began to disperse to homes. I chose to stay with Mama. I wanted the time alone, near her, knowing there wouldn’t be much. She wasn’t conscious, and she was receiving a heavy infusion of pain medicines to keep her that way, actually. I sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand. I talked to her awhile, not sure that she could hear, but wanting to try, just in case. And then I arranged my comfort blanket—the fisherman’s afghan she gave me when I went away to college—on the guest sofa and prepared to try to sleep myself. I couldn’t. So I got out my computer and checked to see if any of my close friends were online at that hour. No one was. I browsed over to Youtube then, for no real reason, and somehow landed on a video of the life cycle of the dragonfly. Intrigued, as usual, I played the video. It may not have been this particular one, but if not, it was one quite similar:

Dragonfly metamorphosis

And then, comforted, I closed the computer. Just at that moment, my mother stirred in her bed. I got up to go to her, and over the next few moments, it happened. Her spirit slipped from her, and left the empty shell behind. Of course, I couldn’t see the spirit rise up, but in faith, I know it did. Can the other nymphs beneath the surface tension of their watery world look upward and see their brothers and sisters’ freedom? Do they even think to try?

Thirty-six hours had passed between my grandmother’s transformation and my mother’s. A little more than thirty-six hours after that, on a July day that exceeded 100 degrees, we gathered under a tent to say goodbye to my grandmother. My mother had not wanted a memorial service of any kind, and we were craving closure and shared community. So again, in a way, the almost simultaneous timing of their passing seemed by design to fulfill a need for those of us left behind.

In addition to the cousins and family members who traveled in for the service, I was blessed to have two in-laws and two like-family friends come from across state lines to attend—to be there for me. Let me never forget the sustenance I received when I stepped from the car in the family processional to see them there, waiting to be nearby at such a difficult time. After the service, my two friends, Cathy and Jeremy, came to the extended family luncheon provided by the funeral home. Even though I imagine it might have been difficult for them to be there, meeting almost everyone all at once for the first time, for me, it was a gift. A piece of today’s home intersecting with the home of my childhood and my historical identity. I needed them, and they were there.

But while Cathy easily slides into group settings with skill and confidence, Jeremy is more one to support from the sidelines, and in this case, it positioned him well to notice something I never would have seen had he not pointed it out. Just outside the dining area were a pair of glass doors leading to the outside. And buzzing around persistently at those doors was a bright blue dragonfly. It would light on the stair rail, and then lift off to hover at the door. Then light again on the step, circle around and come back. My mother and grandmother shared the same favorite color: blue. And there was the very thing that God had used to comfort me just a day and a half before, in our presence, like a reminder: “I have not left you as orphans,” and “My word is truth.”

I was still marveling at the brilliance of the creature, there in the city setting, far from any known water source, when my mother’s first cousin, Pauline, approached me. She had a folded paper in her hand. “Rebecca, I want you to have this. I printed it out this morning. It’s a story your mother sent me. I thought you’d like to have it.” And right there, I unfolded that sheet of standard white copy paper and found this printed on it, in 14-point type:

The Dragonfly

Once, in a little pond, in the muddy water under the lily pads,
there lived a little water beetle in a community of water
beetles.  They lived a simple and comfortable life in the pond
with few disturbances and interruptions.

Once in a while, sadness would come to the community when one of
their fellow beetles would climb the stem of a lily pad and
would never be seen again.  They knew when this happened; their
friend was dead, gone forever.

Then, one day, one little water beetle felt an irresistible urge
to climb up that stem.  However, he was determined that he would
not leave forever.  He would come back and tell his friends what
he had found at the top.

When he reached the top and climbed out of the water onto the
surface of the lily pad, he was so tired, and the sun felt so
warm, that he decided he must take a nap.  As he slept, his body
changed and when he woke up, he had turned into a beautiful
blue-tailed dragonfly with broad wings and a slender body
designed for flying.

So, fly he did!  And, as he soared he saw the beauty of a whole
new world and a far superior way of life to what he had never
known existed.

Then he remembered his beetle friends and how they were thinking
by now he was dead.  He wanted to go back to tell them, and
explain to them that he was now more alive than he had ever been
before.  His life had been fulfilled rather than ended.

But, his new body would not go down into the water.  He could
not get back to tell his friends the good news.  Then he
understood that their time would come, when they, too, would
know what he now knew.  So, he raised his wings and flew off
into his joyous new life!

~Author Unknown~

It was all so surreal. The timing of both women’s passing. The mercy in that. The analogy I had made in the hospital room. The sense of being held upon seeing my out-of-state friends. One of those friends pointing out the timely visitor. The subject matter of the email. The undeniable feeling that a Person outside of ourselves wanted me to know that none of this is just random, that he is faithful to keep his promises, that what seems to be the end is not the end, and that we grieve but not as those without hope. Hope.

Among those of us who see significance in events like these, strung together, there is variance of opinion about what is going on. I, for one, do not believe in reincarnation. I don’t think it was actually my mother visiting us at that day. Nor do I believe that the dragonfly has now taken on some extra sacred identity. It is not an icon. It is simply a motif in my life—a recurring theme, which reminds me of God’s presence and power and trustworthiness, and his personal concern for me in times of trouble. I’ve said before that I don’t believe in coincidences. I also don’t believe that when God shows his goodness and mercy and faithfulness to one of us, it is for just that person alone. I think we have a responsibility to share how he has showed himself, so that others too can be encouraged.

And that is why I share with you now, this story of the dragonfly and its significance to me.

An out-of-place Cardinal Meadowhawk dragonfly, spotted outside the door of the Edisto beach house my brother, cousin, and my family rented to gather with our loved ones and remember the years spent there with Grandmama, Mama, and my Aunt Fran. Leslie saw it first and took better photos than I have to share.

To My Daughter, With Love becomes To Other Moms, With "I'm SO Sorry!"

To My Daughter, With Love: A Mother's Memory Book
Original paintings by Donna Green

I found this book about a decade and a half ago. I was working then for a national children's book club, and the book is exquisitely beautiful, outlandishly girly, and all sorts of things idealistic young moms and moms-to-be for the first time (or, not-yet moms, as I was at the time) could possibly find appealing. A lavishly illustrated write-in journal with prompts for recording all manner of heartfelt comments, ponderings, memories, anecdotes, dreams and visions, and history for one's beloved daughter.

It hooked me. I wanted it. I wanted to offer it for sale. And that I did.

I had to go through an interview process with the author/illustrator first. She said she did not want her book sold "just anywhere." Vendors had to be approved first. (Ironic that now, it's available with two separate listings on Amazon, and many eBay sellers also hawk it readily to the highest bidders. The trial by market all must come to.) Our book club was approved, and then, I did it. I put this book out there for all the others like me to be wooed by.

And they were. We sold thousands upon thousands of this high-priced (for our club's range), hardcover keepsake book. I'm sure it was more than 10,000 copies. It was probably closer to 20,000.

Since that time, I've had four daughters whom I love. And though I remember a good bit about the babyhood of the first, and some about the second, and a little about the third, and a few anecdotes from the fourth, for the most part, those years are one big swirling blur of chaos and needs and joys and stresses and surprises. Before I knew it, a decade was gone in a flash. And then, half of another one.

Our very modest ranch house is packed from end to end with all the accumulated clutter that six people can muster. Not often enough, I reach my wits' end with the mess (I'd much prefer the zen-like serenity of an uncluttered existence, arranged in order and simplicity, with unpretentious touches of art that are never noticeable enough to demand the title decoration, but alas--such is not my destiny, at least not at present) and carve out a day or two to hack away at it with the enthusiasm of a machete-wielding trailblazer in the Amazon jungle.

On one such day about four years ago, I was dumping books from my overly packed shelves when Cathy stopped in for a visit. Cathy is one of those friends who is always welcome to walk right into my house. She's been there for the crises and celebrations, the illnesses and the triumphs. And she doesn't judge me for my mess when she comes upon it. Therefore, the open door applies. She even has her own key, just in case I'm feeling paranoid or insecure about my surroundings.

On this day, I had decided to thin out the books because too many were wedged flat into the space on the shelves atop the ones appropriately standing at attention. And that irks the OCD in me. So several big packing boxes of books were going to the used bookstore for cash or credit, if found acceptable for resale. Cathy sat on the step to talk to me while I pulled and sorted and remembered how each was acquired before it got selected for banishment from the home. It was then that I rediscovered To My Daughter With Love: A Mother's Memory Book.

My heart almost stopped when I saw it there and lifted it down, dusty and forgotten. I wiped the cover to restore the shine to the glossy dust jacket. A flood of nostalgia hit me and I remembered all that I intended. All that life was going to be, and how sweetly and perfectly with idyllic prose I was going to record for My Daughter, whom I loved, everything I wanted her to remember about her childhood, and about me, her one and only mother. I had forgotten. I had forgotten the book and the promises to keep up with it. I had not written one single word in it, ever.

I felt overwhelmed with guilt and remorse. I stood on that chair and condemned myself for my terrible mothering, my terrible failure. So many memories completely lost now. So much of what I wanted my daughter to have for her adulthood that I could never restore because of the blur, the blur, the blur of life. I choked back the tears, not very successfully. And I knew, I was never going to do it, never going to fill in that stinking book.

Cathy has a daughter--and just one, not four! Hers was young enough at the time that maybe she could take the book and make good use of it. So I turned to my dear friend and offered it: "Do you want to take it?"

And I think her answer was a resounding, "NO." It might even have been a "H***, NO." I remember that there was no negotiating the matter, that was clear. "Why would I burden myself that way?!" she emphasized.

It was a shock at first to realize, especially considering just how many of this book had been sold, that any mom of a daughter could outright reject the whole idea wholesale--or even free! And it was unbinding too.

Over this past weekend, I was talking with another mom of a largish family who said that she could not remember certain important milestones in one of her children's lives. She didn't write them down, and now they're gone. I thought again about the book. And the guilt. And the sense of loss.

Why didn't I write in the book? Why didn't she write in her own baby books? Simple.

Because we were busy. We were busy raising our children.

We were busy feeding them and rocking them and reading to them and breaking up quarrels and playing with them and working to provide for them and taking them out into the world and to doctor appointments and to parks and play dates and church and shopping. We were planning birthday parties and cleaning up vomit and taking photos that may never get organized and washing their laundry and going to the grandparents' homes in different towns or states. We were living our lives, with our children.

How is it that anything can make a mom feel guilty for that? But it can. We're wired that way. We know we can't do it perfectly and it takes only a few hours of motherhood before the reality starts to set in that our ideals aren't going to hold up for long in the face of reality.

I'm glad the book is gone from the shelf today. I am glad it is no longer sitting up there, above my head, raining down its reminders of condemnation of me for my failure to be the perfect parent providing the perfect childhood and recording every detail of it, like I'd planned. Given the way things have gone, the absence of a written record may in itself be a real blessing. Today is one of those days in which our interactions are better forgotten. We only need to look back later and remember that we soldiered on through, together.

And to others who may have bought the book because of my initial (or long-term, as it turns out) enamoration with it, I want to say, "I am truly sorry." I am sorry to have participated in laying such a burden on you, like I did on myself. I aided. I abetted. And I'm sorry if the zeal for that ideal has resulted in the same sort of guilt for you at falling short in an area that does not matter at all. So go to your own shelf, and take it down and get rid of it.

Just don't try to sell it at the used book store. Because they didn't want to touch the thing either.

At least someone out there has some preemptive wisdom.

The Tone of "Do Not Fear"

He said he just couldn't shake the sense of anxiety and fear, and its close cousin, depression.

I know the feeling, and though we share some personality qualities, he somehow lived a good 25 years longer than I did before he had to begin the daily wrestling with those deceptive and pervasive emotions. But even so, there's more than a little understanding between us. It seems he fought harder and longer to keep it from showing than I did. Putting up the mask. Choosing to walk away from conversations before they got to anything real. Choosing to serve others as a series of projects rather than cultivating any deep and meaningful, lasting relationships. And if the project is too hard, he promises to come back to it later, and then stacks his schedule full. Avoidance.

He kept his appearance above reproach. But inside, he's being eaten alive with anxiety. Depression. He knows something is not right.

Our conversation was not fruitful, and I keep returning to it in grief, though it's fully been two months, maybe more, since it occurred.

I know he believes. I know he is committed to his faith. I know he, at one time, understood grace with more than gnosis--with epignosis. But it's lost somewhere--covered over, callused over, suppressed? And he seems too tired now to keep grappling for it, to see it become real again. It has rendered even his encouragement of me, once so vibrant, full of blue-sky dreams and aspirations, to only admonishment to retract, avoid anything that is "fraught with difficulty." Take the easy way out by stepping aside if need be.

Once, didn't we believe that anything worthwhile would be "fraught with difficulty"? Didn't we believe there was no easy road? That it was "all uphill, all the way," but that the labor to press on toward what we knew was right, would vindicate in the end? Press on toward the goal! Because suffering is expected, and God is faithful!

I tried to explain to him how, in recent months, I've experienced the old teaching anew. What I believed when I first believed: that grace is so much more full and rich and complete and constant and OTHER that there is reason to rejoice and rest, to be freed from the sense of anxiety and depression we learned to put on over the years. God loves us, now, and sees us as we really will be--already. I told him about the gentle voice that says, "Do not fear." The one that comes close, like I do with my little ones when they are frightened of the thunder, or the strange black car parked in the street: "I'm here. You're safe. Don't be afraid."

But he said no, he couldn't accept that. Not exactly. He reminded me of an illustration shared many years ago. I remember it now too, and I remember at the time accepting it. God does come and puts his arm around us to say, "Don't be afraid." But at the same time, he is wagging a frustrated and scolding finger in our faces, showing his disapproval and commanding us to "Stop it this instant!"

And it changes things. Actually, it seems to change everything, and I feel the weight upon my neck again. My Father is not happy with me.

I've asked yet another learned man for additional input on this understanding of grace and favor, loving discipline and frustrated chastisement, and the depth and breadth of the reality of the imputation of righteousness now, in the already and the not yet and the almost. Because I know that to live free of fear, as we are called to do, God's grace and favor has to be somehow a constant, outside even of my own struggles to believe and obey. He encourages me to "fear not." He does not ask what is not possible of us. And I know that if his pleasure with me is based on my perfect performance, even in areas of my emotions, then I will constantly fall short, and the wagging finger will never relent, and without his favor and approval, I cannot be free of the fear he is admonishing me to release.

I need grace to be entirely on his terms, secured by him and through him, for me--even as I stumble along, not yet getting it all right. Is anything less really grace?

Would you like email notifications?

Dear readers,

I am checking out an option, based on one reader's request, to be able to send email notifications to a limited number of readers when a new post is made.

It seems that Blogger will allow one automated email to go out for each new post, and up to 10 recipients can be on that email list.

If this interests you, please let me know by either:
sending me the email address you want the notification to go to at this email (remove brackets and replace the letters for at with the @ sign and the letters for dot with a period):  rjc[and]wkc[at]gmail[dot]com.

OR leave your email address in the comments section here.

The first 10 people to respond to this can be added to the list. I'm not sure why Blogger limits it to 10, but it seems that is the restriction.

2014 Resolution

We're all looking for ways to improve ourselves.

I've never been one to make a firm set of resolutions at New Year's, though in general, yes, as a perfectionist and an idealist, I have always been looking, looking, looking for how to be better at everything: Better friend, better mother, better housekeeper, better wife, better in physical fitness, better giver, better in knowledge, better at being forgiving, better at suffering, better at not only feeling empathy but also doing something about it. There's always something else to be done, to be improved upon.

But I look back now and wonder: What, if anything, did I really succeed at? Am I not just simply more depleted, less confident, more humbled and even more humiliated than I was before?

There are two things that I think have been working against me. The first is how very, very completely I believed in one statement made probably 5-6 years ago by my former pastor and friend. He said we believers are called to simply, "become what we already are." Even though I never expected to be able to achieve that perfectly, I did expect to be able to move toward it, because of who it is who works within me. I believed that I just needed to open myself up to that possibility of his working in me, and I believed that others, my community, sitting in that room with me heard those same words and believed them and wanted the same thing. But that didn't happen. Since that time, I saw only more and more external rules and laws being put up around people, to be sure that no one had to even make an effort at all to "become what we already are." It was just one right after another saying, "We can't do anything right, so we have to set up restrictions to be sure we never get tested or challenged." And no one resisted that view. A few people were strong enough to continue to live by grace in their own lives, but much with an attitude of, "Let what works for them work for them, but I'm going to do my own thing over here." Steve Brown calls that letting the wolves in to the congregation, when no one pushes back against the subtle infiltration of legalism.

A part of me really began to deteriorate because of the pervasiveness and insistence of that movement, because it means there is no God in Israel--not an active one, not the one who promised sanctification and presence and freedom to live in grace. Not the one in the Bible. And that brings me to the second thing that was working against me: my rose-colored glasses. It's because of those rose-colored glasses, that assumes even the wolves MUST mean well, they're just misunderstood; and that everyone must really want the fulfilment of good things; and that the world really could be better than it is right now, that I began to deteriorate in the face and practice of actual reality.

My current pastor, who understands idealism to some degree but has lived long enough and through enough and out in the real world enough to have a better perspective than I, said to me this summer, "Rebecca, your rose-colored glasses are not doing you any earthly good." And he is right. In fact, those pinky lenses just set me up for so much farther to fall. The world is less pink than red, really. Because, in the words of The Player, "Blood is compulsory." There's nothing Precious-Momentsy about that, and no wishful thinking in the world can take that truth out of our reality.

And so I think the resolution for 2014 has to be simply, "No longer cast your pearls before swine." I have cast and I have cast and I have cast. I am God's precious pearl. He said so in Matthew 13. He is my treasure and I (within his whole church, but as one of its many parts) am his pearl. He does not want me pouring myself out endlessly where I am only going to be trampled underfoot. He gives validation to the need, sometimes, to stop trying. Seventy times seven, was, while likely meant to be hyperbole, also a finite number.

2014 is a good year for the rose-colored glasses to come off. And not only to come off, but to be crushed under the heel of my combat boot. And to shake the rose-colored dust from my feet afterward.

Maybe the shoes of the good news of peace look a lot like combat boots. Let 2014 be one of seeing clearly and standing firm on what's really right in a world that is really not right and won't be, and still not accepting that which is "almost right" and deceptively convincing.