“When you get to heaven,
Will you please
send me a butterfly?”

That was the request
of my son
to his dear friend
who was dying of lung cancer.

Her diagnosis
was quick and certain:
She had 2 weeks
to 2 months
to live.

My son had first met her
and her husband
years before.
They were neighbors
of his grandparents.

They had become fast friends.
He had endeared himself
to her and her husband,
and they to him.
Exchanging candies
and visits
over the years.

On one such visit,
he noticed
that she didn’t have
a star on top of
her Christmas tree.
He chastised her
as only a little boy could,
and informed her
that it was
the most important part
because it showed the shepherds
how to get
to the stable
where baby Jesus was.
And he promptly created one
out of crayons and tape and scissors
and gifted it to her.
She hung it up immediately.

On this visit,
he brought her flowers
and said goodbye.
Maybe just for a week,
until he got back
from our family vacation,
but also knowing
that this particular goodbye
might be for longer.

I thought back
to the time
a few years before,
when her husband
had passed away.
It had been
even more sudden.
And in shock,
he had sobbed and sobbed.
Grief consumed his little soul
while I held him.

This time
when we got back
from vacation,
we sat down
and I told him
I needed to tell him
something.

His eyes filled
with the realization
that he already knew
what I was about to say.

This time
his cute face
slowly broke into a small smile
and he knowingly nodded his head.
He was calmer.
Older.
Wiser.
I asked if he was surprised.

“No,”
He said.
“After all,
There had been
a lot of butterflies
at the pool on Saturday….”

She died on a Sunday morning.

His heart had been
prepared for the news
the day before.
The wings of those butterflies
at the pool
had cushioned his heart
from shattering.

And, fittingly,
she left him a gift:
A butterfly ornament
that could be hung
on his Christmas tree.

“In light of
what we know
about our eternal destiny,
is it any wonder
that whenever we face
the bitter endings of life,
they seem unacceptable to us?
There seems to be
something inside of us
that resists endings.
Why is this?
Because we are made
of the stuff
of eternity.
We are eternal beings,
children of the Almighty God,
whose name is Endless
and who promises
eternal blessings without number.
Endings are not our destiny.
The more we learn
about the gospel of Jesus Christ,
the more we realize
that endings here in mortality
are not endings at all.
They are merely interruptions—
temporary pauses
that one day will seem small
compared to the eternal joy
awaiting the faithful.”

-Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf

A few weeks later,
my dear son started school.
I dropped him off
on the first day
and watched him
walk into
the lone and dreary world
of middle school.

He was all alone.

And I sat in the parking lot
watching
as he walked away;
his back to my car,
his shape getting smaller
with each step he took
into the distance,
while I wished
I could go with him
somehow.

Eventually
he disappeared
from my sight
and he entered the school doors.

I drove home,
my heart heavy with anxiety.
Heavy with the reminder –
familiar now,
but heavy all the same –
that as a mother,
once again
I needed to allow my kids
to live their own lives
and to fight their own battles
that would make them
what they needed to become.

My own heart
heavy with my own grief
because summer was over;
No more lazy mornings
and swimming
and togetherness.

And I worried
and wondered
for much of the day
about how he was doing.

Everything was new:
New school
New classes
New teachers
New friends.
Was he okay?
Were kids being nice?

He seemed okay
when he got home
that afternoon.

And my heart
breathed a small sigh
of relief
as if a catastrophe
had been avoided.

And later that night
he whispered to me
that he had petitioned God
that morning
before school.
And unbeknownst to me
he had prayed
that his guardian angels –
including his dear friends
who were now together –
would be with him
on his first day of school.

He told me,
quick and certain,
as only a young boy could:
“I know they were there.”

And I breathed
an even bigger sigh.
And my heart was full
of gratitude.

But I also felt
a twinge of guilt,
because I should have known.
Of course
he was fine.
Of course
God wouldn’t leave him
to face that alone.
Of course
He would answer
the faith-filled prayer
of a young boy
who asked politely
that his angels
would attend to him.
And then let him know
that they had been there.

I had forgotten
to look for them;
And to remind my son
to look for them
as I had dropped him off
that morning.

After all,
“What is essential
is invisible to the eye.”
– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
The Little Prince

He wasn’t alone.
His guardian angels were there
anyway.
His dear friends
walked with him
throughout the day.

I was reminded
of another time
when angels went with
another son.

Right before
he left for his mission,
the thought came to me
quick and certain and true
as though my late Nana herself
was speaking them to me:
“We’ve put together
a great team for him.”

An entire team of angels
working together.
To protect
To support
To help
To love.

And so now
among other things,
butterflies
will continue to remind me
of the teams of angels
that have certainly
been assembled
for my children.
And for me.
And for each one of us.

Invisible,
and yes,
essential.

And one day
I’ll surely thank
those teams of angels,
and shed tears of gratitude.
And until then
I’ll try to remember
that endings are just
a temporary interruption.
Because
we are made
of the stuff
of eternity.