Betty of the Butterflies

In every room of her house, butterflies.

Embroidered on pillows, crocheted into blankets, embraced by frames, and depicted in gold pins placed perfectly on lapels.  Butterflies.

At ninety-seven, back bent into a C, hearing gone, skin tired and looking like the ripples of sand left after a desert downpour, Betty appears to be heading into a cocoon where she will transform into... what?  Does the caterpillar have any idea what comes next after she crawls into the sleeping bag of chrysalisness?

Betty recently fell, and her back has been painful ever since.  She asks me to come and give her a massage every week.  I go to her house, and help her onto her left side in her four-postered bed.  I crawl in with her, behind her, and my thumb rubs back and forth along an almost bone-like muscle. I patiently pay attention, to see if it wants to soften, to give Betty peace. 

I don't know what needs to happen here.  Betty is weaker, more quiet, more reliant on her walker and the help of her family.  Does she need this discomfort to help her to let go into her metamorphosis?  Or will pain relief renew her energy so that she is more self-reliant once again?  These questions are not useful.  I sing to her in my mind as I lightly knead her soft and perfect skin.  Just being here right now.  Just loving.

Today when I had finished massaging Betty's back, I let her relax awhile before helping her to sit up and get out of bed.  While she rested, I picked up a prayer book, one of a few dusty books tucked into a woven basket resting on the floor.  Written by someone from the Episcopal church in Little Rock, Arkansas, it was last updated in 1977.  Old but still useful, like everything in this house.  In silence, I read the prayers to Betty.

Prayers with gratitude.  Prayers of petition.  Thank you, God, for sending your Son to show us the way.  Please, God, give us your peace.  Please heal us as Jesus healed the blind, the lepers, the crippled.  I know this is Betty's language and faith - she doesn't tell me this, she lives it in the most beautiful way.

All around us, butterflies hang on walls, rest on chairs, and drape over couches. 

A caterpillar knows how to become a butterfly. 

I have faith in that.

A little painting I gave Betty years ago - it hangs in her kitchen.