Crazy Chick vs.Caterpillar - and a forgotten lesson I hope to hold onto now

Last year for Easter or Mother's Day (honestly, not sure which... but leaning towards Easter), my mom gave me a Hydrangea.

*SHE* has the green thumb.

*I* do noooooot.

Plants in my world better be able to last through Armageddon and then still find water on their own.

(My mom, however, routinely grew an amazing garden that filled her yard with color, hidden surprises, and made you feel like you had really "been" somewhere after you took a walk around the yard.)

So, the hydrangea did okay for a while... and then... then it's leaves started disappearing in big giant bites.  And... well... I figured it was a goner.  It looked like it had surely joined its other past neighbors in the big flower bed in the sky (that I so dutifully contribute to on a regular basis).

And then my mom died in February.

And in March, holy crap... it started sprouting leaves.

It's funny the things that are suddenly incredibly important.  The kind of important that drives me to check, recheck, and then check again seemingly insignificant things.

The hydrangea - and its miraculous return - is high on that list.

As a result, I've been waiting to pounce if the mysterious gobbling plant-slayer returned.  And, sure enough, at 6:30 pm I discovered enormous - catastrophic in my current "really weird things rank insanely high on the reasons to panic scale" state - holes in several leaves of my tender charge.

By 7 pm, I was marching (with a chewed, mangled leaf in tow) in to the garden department of our local Home Depot.  I had to - after all - bring evidence of the carnage so I could find the right weapon, right?

The girl at the outside register - probably just this side of graduating high school, with wide eyes and a confused smile - looked at me as I held the leaf up and asked "Who can I talk to about what's eating my hydrangea?"

She answered, "You brought a leaf?"

See... why ask those questions... it only starts the current stream of (normally out of character, waaaaaaaay too many details on my part to share face-to-face with a random stranger) rambling.  Oh no...

So, it starts... "I had to bring a leaf.  My mom died. She gave me the hydrangea. She died and then the hydrangea started sprouting again.  Don't you see?  I have to save the hydrangea?"

The poor, completely caught off guard, Home Depot girl blinks... a lot... at this crazy chick waving a half-eaten leaf. And then she says, "Wait, we have a guy.  I'll call the guy."

So "the guy" (Tom) arrives and now I don't have to ramble - the rambling (much to my chagrin... it really has a habit of starting an avalanche of similar, uncomfortable rambling in the unsuspecting strangers who don't know what to do with all of those personal details) spreads.

She explains to Tom "We need to save the hydrangea.  It's from her mom. Her mom died.  But then the hydrangea started sprouting.  But now something is eating it.  Look how much of the leaf is gone. It's horrible.  We have to know what's eating it."

(She's honestly more compelling than I am... would be nice if it always worked this way...)

So Tom goes into action, takes the leaf and carefully (and rather reverently) examines it.

"It's a caterpillar.  But, don't worry, we can fix that."

A few minutes later I was triumphantly headed back to the car (still holding the leaf... not really sure why) with a bottle of spray that Tom assures me will save the hydrangea - and defeat it's caterpillar foe.

My triumph though is a bit short lived (though tomorrow, the caterpillar is still firmly on my "things to actually get done" list).  The moment of glee faded though because of another, currently familiar phenomenon... the memories that pop up from sort of related but not exactly moments.

A caterpillar turns into a butterfly. (yes, I know you probably know that)

You may not know, though, that for a butterfly the process of working free of its cocoon is one of the things that makes it able to fly.  Typically, you don't want to help a butterfly get out faster... because if you do, you actually ruin its main life-purpose (flight).

Two and a half years ago, my mom was already feeling crummy, not eating well, not at all her normal self - we just didn't know why yet (and couldn't have imagined that the "why" would far to soon put us here).

On that still-carefree-world-not-yet-ending random day, the kiddo and I had a date with Mamete.

We were exiting our front door, standing on the porch, getting ready (a little early for once) to get into the car when she - my daughter with possibly the most tender (and rather dramatic) heart you can imagine - spotted a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.  We had been watching and waiting for its appearance... and since it only had one small part left to struggle out of, I figured we could watch it for a few moments and still make it in time.

And so we waited.  And waited.  And watched.  And the kiddo started panicking as the butterfly obviously ran out steam - and the cocoon refused to give way.

So, I did what any mom with a panicking / heartbroken / now crying almost six year old would do.  I whipped out my phone and googled how to help a butterfly get free.

Over the next hour, the child and I sat - me with tweezers holding the part that was stuck and an eye dropper of water (to soften the now too dry and hardened by the sun for the butterfly to get out of cocoon).  The child doing her best - trying to be calm because she didn't want to scare the poor creature, but also randomly crying and excitedly begging for me to please, please, please not let it die.

And finally it was free.  And minutes later was gone.  And the child jumped for joy (and I realized that we were now almost 45 minutes late for our Mamete date... and, Mamete had an ingrained, part of her very core, respect for punctuality... uh-oh).

I called and explained.  And heard a bit of strain in her voice.  I heard her trying to rectify the "necessity" of our just finished adventure with her own southern / timeliness equates to respect for the person you're supposed to meet standard.

I heard the struggle - and was sad.  I always hated to create those places in her.  I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking (and how hard she was trying / weighing / attempting not to let her own disappointment be known).

But, when we walked through her door 30 minutes later... it wasn't disappointment that greeted me.  It was an unexpected summary of her view of (and knowledge and gratitude for) the heart she had raised.

She said, "Honey, for a minute I was upset... I couldn't figure out why a butterfly was more important... and then I realized that you and our girl stopping to save a butterfly is exactly why I love your heart so much. I can't fault you for pausing to really show that heart in action to your daughter, now can I?"

So, while our plans had changed... we had a nice chat (with lots of bubbly insight from the now "expert butterfly medic" five year old) about what we'd learned about freeing butterflies... and that while we could help by softening the cocoon, we had to let it work free on its own.

And I showed her the pictures I'd taken.

And she said, "You know, there's a lesson there... you ought to write about that... you needed to let it struggle, but you also couldn't let it struggle on its own."

[One of my mom's many gifts - one I try so hard to emulate with my own dear child - is that she seldom gave you a whole lesson... but instead was, innately and because of her own life's walk, the ultimate teacher.  A teacher who gave just enough to pique your interest, get your started, and who then left you (safely knowing that she and God talked in the wee hours of most nights about helping her pupil... and then pupils with the addition of "our" girl... along) to find and discover and really make the rest of the lesson your very own.]

Today, more than two years later my fight against a caterpillar brought flooding back a safely stored opening lesson that I so needed... a lesson about being a butterfly trapped in the dark and fighting to get free. And, mom, I am (finally) writing about it - and really thinking it through - years later... but I'm sure right on time.

I'm learning anew (within a much different place in my life) about struggle being where strength is built... but that also in that struggle we sometimes need help... someone to soften the way.

There's no shame in that. But its also hard now for me to let people soften the way when YOU normally expertly hold the eye dropper - often in such a way I hardly notice you're easing the struggle.  Now, no matter what, the help makes me feel much more exposed... it's hard to learn how to explain what help I need when you've just sort of done/known/stepped in without me needing to explain.

But also, there's no way to hurry the struggle. No way for me - here in the grief / currently lost and a bit crazy - to push this process any faster than it needs to be.  I have a lot to learn here.  A lot to figure out... a lot of strengthening to do... a lot of hard earned wisdom to let God get across.

And there's also no way for those who love me - many of whom I know would love to fix me on an accelerated timeline and force me out of the dark - to hurry me along without also clipping my wings.

So it's ok - both for them and me - to be patient... to let the struggle do its work.

Hopefully my caterpillar foe will find its way to heaven tomorrow and tell you that I remember... there is, after all, still the matter of saving the hydrangea... can't very well walk this struggle through without lovely flowers also nudging me along the way.

But thankful for the reminder... for a lesson from you to chew on... I figure a few missing leaves are well worth that.