The Freedom of the Butterflies and the Holy Spirit

Sometimes we forget to use nature to help us tune into God.  In this particular instance, I found myself contemplating butterflies as a way to contemplate the freedom and elusiveness of the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes Michigan winters feel long and hard. Temperatures drop into the 40s in October, plunge into single digits by January, and don’t really climb back into the 40s until April. That’s six months of cold. This past winter brought subzero windshields and near-daily snow. In survival mode, my days blurred into a routine: let the dogs out, feed them, help them settle, shower, do back exercises, eat, and head to work. Seeing children for well visits and illnesses, I fell into the rhythms of practice and, over time, my joy for pediatric medicine dimmed.

I began to forget how funny kids are, the delight of listening to their stories, the small, ordinary moments that make the work meaningful. Worse, I found my presence slipping during visits; I had to force myself to think clearly, to embrace problems objectively and form sensible treatment plans. Spiritually, too, my prayer life grew lukewarm. The yoke of work got heavy.

Our visit to the butterfly garden

In March, my wife Anne suggested a day trip to Meijer Gardens’ butterfly exhibit. I took my camera—an Eos Rebel ET6—and a monopod. The drive north was only 45 minutes. Stepping out of the car, I breathed the cold, fresh air like a new life. My legs were stiff from the drive and a three-mile run the day before, but excitement bubbled as I remembered our last visit five years earlier: butterflies circling and flashing brilliant color, difficult to capture with a camera.

Inside the conservatory I lost track of time. Butterflies flitted from tree to water to leaf, sometimes landing and offering a chance to photograph them. Many came from Central and South America—the Blue and White Longwing, the Golden Helicon with brown wings and a golden center, the Tiger Longwing with black, orange, and cream stripes, and the Postman with bold red bands. I tried various shooting positions: sitting, standing with the monopod, crouching near leaves and water. With the camera on automatic I managed some decent shots, and I reveled in the simple joy of watching them.

My biggest challenge was the Common Morpho Peleides—brilliant iridescent blue wings spanning about five inches. Their blue isn’t a pigment but a refracted color from microscopic wing scales. Despite their size, Morphos were astonishingly fast and erratic in flight, flashing electric blue when wings were open and disappearing to a dull brown undersurface with protective eyespots when closed. Their erratic pattern and camouflage are exceptional survival traits—and formidable obstacles for photographers.

Being with Jesus in the Ignatian style of prayer

Frustration mounted as the Morphos eluded my lens. Eventually I let the frustration go and began to contemplate. In the Ignatian style of prayer, I placed myself in a gospel scene. I imagined Jesus in Jerusalem for Passover, tired after a day that included the cleansing of the temple (John 2). The evening cooled; Jesus and his disciples had started fires to keep warm after their meal. Nicodemus, a respected Pharisee, came to him at night. John 3 tells the ensuing conversation:

Nicodemus acknowledges Jesus as a teacher from God. Jesus replies, “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.” Nicodemus wonders how a grown man can be born again. Jesus answers, “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit… Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit… The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (John 3:1–8, https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John%203%3A1-8&version=NIV).

Contemplating the Holy Spirit

Hearing Jesus describe the Spirit’s unpredictability made me view the butterfly differently. The Morpho’s elusiveness and sudden flashes of blue mirrored the Holy Spirit’s freedom—ungraspable, moving where it pleases, sometimes sharp and erratic, sometimes graceful. Just as a butterfly cannot be contained, the Spirit cannot be controlled or held tight. There is joy in that freedom: a childlike openness, a willingness to be present without knowing the next move.

That freedom is deeply therapeutic for my work. When I let the Spirit be at work—listening, being present with child and parent—I can step back from anxiety and let insight come. The Spirit illuminates diagnosis and care. In those moments I feel Jesus’ invitation from Matthew 11: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest… For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:28–30, https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%2011%3A28-30&version=NIV). Exchanging my heavy yoke for Jesus’ light one restores joy.

I recognize how easy it is to let routine and coldness of spirit numb me. Slowly, unconsciously, I can stop seeing God in each child and situation. I don’t invite the Holy Spirit to illuminate my day, and the work becomes merely mechanical. This tiredness is not just physical or mental, but spiritual.

Being One with the Holy Spirit

So sometimes, by grace—and, as on this day, by Anne’s gentle insistence—I need to “go see the butterflies.” I need to be reminded of the Spirit’s unpredictability and freedom: where it comes from, where it’s going, I don’t know, but it moves and invites me to move with it. Letting Jesus in, I can work with presence and compassion again. Love and charity flow from the Triune God into my heart, and I can share them with the children I care for. Then the ordinary moments become joyful: hearing a four-month-old smile as I listen to her heart, a five-year-old laugh as I examine his belly and tease about doughnuts, a fifteen-year-old pausing to consider what truly brings her joy.

Butterflies captivate not just by beauty but by mystery. Their speed and agility are survival and adaptability, and their flashing blue is a reminder of something deeper: like the wind Jesus speaks of, spirit and freedom are at the core of nature and faith. They move without asking permission, inspiring wonder in those who follow their flight.

I close with a prayer of gratitude: Blessed are you, Father, Creator of all, who cares for me as a beloved child. Thank you, Jesus, for teaching me about the Holy Spirit through these small, elusive creatures—teaching me to be present, detached from the world’s grips, and open to the unpredictable work of your Spirit. Help me share that love freely with the children and families I serve. Amen.