Spreading Wings

How could I lose my job? I was at the top of my game. For two decades, I had worked long, hard hours; many of my colleagues had benefited from my perseverance and skills. Yet, as a change in administration forced me down, those same colleagues stood silently by the sidelines. Of course, friends came one by one and commiserated, saying it was unfair, asking what I was going to do. For them, I put on a brave face. Fearful and concerned for their continuing safety, I asked that they not defend me. “I don’t need any help, I’m fine,” I grinned, showing more confidence than I felt, silently thanking my doctor for the little blue pills that had helped me stop crying.

That night on the drive home it rained. A storm came up suddenly and the rain poured down so fast, traffic slowed to a crawl. I knew my son, Joey, would be waiting for me and I tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. The preacher on the car radio droned on about the three times Jesus’ disciples had been in a boat, times which had taught them to trust in Jesus. I heard the message. I had heard several messages since this started. I had rebuked Satan, but that had not helped, I had cast my cares on God, but the cares kept coming. Now, I was waiting on Jesus to save me, but I was in a faith crisis and I knew it.

I pulled up to my cute little home, which was all I could afford on a single mother’s salary, and was met by an anxious Joey and my neighbor, Betty, who earned a few extra dollars by watching Joey after school.

“I told him to leave that thing outside,” huffed Betty, an older woman whose knees were giving out on her.

“He needs a home,” Joey wailed, hunching over something he held in his hands.

“What is it, Joey?” I tried to look around his little hunched shoulders. More than likely, it was another stray, perhaps a kitten. Eight-year-old Joey had a heart for animals in need.

Joey opened his hands and revealed a caterpillar happily munching its way through a green rosette of leaves. “It’s the hungry caterpillar,” Joey smiled his eyes alight with love, “And he needs a home, Mom.” The Hungry Caterpillar was Joey’s favorite book.

Nodding absently, I pulled a plastic mayonnaise jar out of a cabinet and punched air holes around the side. “Be sure to keep fresh food for him to eat. Go back to the plant you found him on to get it.” I walked like a zombie into the kitchen to fix supper and then hopefully go to bed as soon as I could. Going to work each day to fulfill my contract was like getting oral surgery once a day.

Joey met me at the door every night from then on with his caterpillar in tow. Joey’s teacher asked that he stop bringing it to school, because it was disrupting their review for the state test; so we talked at home about how it would spin a cocoon soon and change. All of this time, Joey was keeping the caterpillar’s home clean, and giving it fresh food to eat.

Then the waiting began, the caterpillar formed a cocoon and Joey watched it intently to see any changes. At work, I began to pack two decades of memories away, sometimes staying late because I could not help but cry despite the doctor’s pills and I wanted to hide from others. Finally, I had sorted through what was mine and what belonged to the place I worked and packed the boxes.

Joey met me at the door the night I finished packing. The caterpillar had come out of the cocoon, but the big, green moth was too big for the mayonnaise jar. His wings were cramped and he could not open them fully.

“Joey, do you love your caterpillar?” I asked softly, beginning to see something of myself in the moth that had come out of the cocoon. “It is too big for this home. We need a remedy for this, love, what do you suggest?”

“We can get a bigger home,” Joey hiccuped.

“And what? This moth is meant to fly, sweetie. Can we find a home that big?”
Joey sighed and walked to the door, “I have to let him go, Mom. I guess he can’t stay here anymore.”

I nodded, opening the door, “I know it hurts, but it is better for the moth. He has no room to spread his wings in this home.”

Joey opened the lid and the moth flew out. Swift joy lit his face as the moth hovered for a moment, and then flapped its wings, flying into the night sky; free to be the moth God had made it to be.

I closed the door; suddenly secure God was with me in the storm that now made it impossible for me to stay in the work home I had made for myself. Like the moth, it was time to spread my wings. The preacher’s words from the stormy day Joey found the caterpillar echoed in my heart. We can trust Jesus in a boat on a perfectly calm day, we can trust Jesus in a boat when He is in it and a storm arises, and we can trust Jesus in a boat when He is no where to be seen until He walks toward us across the water.

Now, despite the storm still raging around me, I was no longer afraid. I would trust Jesus to find the new job God had planned for me, a job where I could spread my wings and fly once more.

What We Do

A deep gray sky of lowering clouds and the whip of a strong wind tell of an approaching storm. The high-pitched metallic ring of an iron mallet on an iron spike and the mutters of those who hurt me, are snatched away by the wind, bouncing like echoes against the sharp, piercing pain in my wrist. The rough pinch of splinters from two crossed bars of wood scrape my shoulders and legs. I writhe, trying to pull away. Helpless, held roughly by strong hands, I watch as one iron spike is driven through my wrist. Then my other hand is pulled along the bar and held. Another iron spike is lowered into place.

I sob, “Stop, don’t do this!” Those around me laugh, a harsh and taunting sound. My pain amuses them and I know they will not stop. They toss out jibes and taunts. The cruelty of the moment, the inability to rise from where I am held, the knowledge of sure pain to come and sure death to follow presses down upon me like the iron spike, which presses into my wrist, cutting my flesh as the mallet rings again.

I try to remember who I am, but the knowledge escapes me. I am not ready for this. How could anyone be ready for this? Woven brambles prick my head. The life’s blood of my flesh ebbs out. Pain overwhelms me, coloring my vision. Shudders wrack my body, my breath struggles in and out of my lungs through my sobs.

Confused, I suddenly rise; I have been released. I stand, looking down. I am no longer on the cross. He has taken my place. I watch as they raise Him. His flesh tears as the cross falls with a solid thump into the hole and sways. His blood falls in great drops and runs in rivulets to soak the ground.

“Please forgive me,” I plead, knowing that what I have done has put Him here in my place; and from the cross He whispers, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”