Wings of Faith

“A brown butterfly to land on my hand,” my three-year-old squeaks with excitement. His response is an innocent reply to my offhanded question, “What do you want for Christmas?”

I mutter a hesitant “We’ll see” before putting him to bed, relishing the rare moments I get to spend with him. I’ve been too out of sorts to be present most of the time.

The unceasing screams of his sister, suffering from colic, keep pulling me into the black hole of postpartum depression. I feel like a shattered piece of china held together with tape—sharp, broken, and barely hanging on. I don’t want my bitter feelings to spoil my son’s excitement for the season.

I feel the weight of his answer on my shoulders. A brown butterfly had landed on his hand while we were taking one of our daily walks in the cool air of early spring. He talked about it for weeks. It is still the highlight of his short life.

I want to make his wish come true and see in his face some of the joy I desperately want for myself. I go to sleep praying for peace and relief, feeling that this is going to be a harsh Christmas for us both.

The next morning, we awake to a beautiful day—perfect for our annual Christmas Eve hike. My son prepares with more gusto than usual, talking about when and how his butterfly will arrive.

“It’s a little too cold,” I say as I zip up his coat and pull a hat over his head. “Perhaps the butterflies will all be staying warm inside their homes.”

“Not my butterfly,” he laughs, undeterred.

I put my daughter in the baby carrier and say a silent prayer: “Please don’t let him be too disappointed.”

As we walk, my son looks back and forth among the trees, more eager with each step. The cold wind shakes the leaves. He spins as they fall to the forest floor, where he stomps on them with a big crunch of his boots. To him, the world is full of magic, just waiting for his wish to come true. But I don’t see any butterflies.

We near the end of the trail. As I start to call him home, I hear his joyful laughter. I turn to see him by a tree holding his finger out as a small brown butterfly dances around him. With the faintest touch, they meet, and he smiles. His eyes find mine, and I feel warmth spreading all over me, marveling at the little miracle I’ve just witnessed.

I clap my hands in celebration and praise. God was listening. The weight of my sadness eases, and the Sprit witnesses that He is aware of me. He had heard my pleading prayers for strength and relief during tiring nights and depressing days.

Even small things, like finding a butterfly on a December day, prove that Heavenly Father is watching over my family—reminding me that miracles still happen when we have the faith of a child.

Photograph from Getty Images