“Gracie, ayuda!” My sister cried from the living room. I hurriedly grabbed a towel and dried my hands as I scurried from the adjoining kitchen.
“Que pasa?” I wondered out loud and saw her trying to catch our little Chihuahua, Frodo, who barked incessantly at the window. I first looked outside, wondering if someone had gotten into the yard or if our new Belgian Shepherd puppy had gotten loose. Ana wasn’t looking outside, though, and Frodo was snapping at something this side of the glass.
I saw the black and orange butterfly flutter helplessly, probably frightened by the enormous four pound canine who kept trying to bite it in half.
“Help it, Gracie,” Ana asked me to save the butterfly. “Es que, me da cosa.”
“Me da cosa” literally means “it gives me thing,” which makes absolutely no sense in English, but in Mexico, it can mean numerous things. It can have a negative connotation like “it gives me Goosebumps” or “it gives me the creeps.” It can also be a demonstration of sympathy as in “I feel sorry for it.” Whatever the combination of emotions or interpretation of Ana’s short phrase, I knew I had to help this vulnerable creature. While Ana held back the dog, I knelt down next to the window and gently cupped my hands over the quivering butterfly, surrounding it in the heart shaped sanctuary of my hands. I rose up slowly and started walking.
“I wonder how it got inside,” Ana asked as she stepped ahead of me to open the door.
“I don’t know. When the door was open, I guess.” I stepped outside.
“I think it’s hurt. It kept hitting the glass.”
I opened my hands, and Ana’s concerns were quieted with the butterfly fluttering away over Mom’s potted plants. It was free, no more glass, no more canine, no more fear.
That was last week. I saw a butterfly again today, same bright color, the most orange of sunsets adorned with bridal Henna. Probably not the same butterfly. Still, I was reminded of the simple rescue in the living room. But I have a confession to make: “me dio cosa” too. Like Ana, I saw the helpless little one and wanted to save it, wanted to take it outside where it wouldn’t be banging against the transparent illusion of freedom. For a second though, I thought of myself. I don’t want to touch it. I saw it beat against the glass. It’s a bug. Ana’s plea helped me realize someone had to do something. We couldn't just let it die inside or worse get eaten. I had to save it.
I find I do that a lot thought, see someone in need, someone banging against the incarcerating walls of an illusion, someone crying out for help, someone hiding from a ferocious enemy, someone held captive by their sins. We, Christians, having the means to help them, having the freedom to do so and the strength of Christ, we don’t do it. We think first of ourselves. I don’t want to get involved. We see them banging themselves helplessly against life. They’ve got problems. Rather than be the light of the world and the salt of the earth, we remain anonymous. How long will I observe these lost people who need the truth of the Gospel that will set them free, observe and do nothing?
The other day, I saved a little butterfly.
“Butterfly, thank you.”
