Monarch butterflies have had a special meaning for us ever since the death of my infant granddaughter Eliana.  The summer after she died, we saw Monarch butterflies everywhere, even though an unusual hard frost in Mexico, where the Monarch butterflies spend the winter, had killed most of the Monarch population only months before.

When Eliana’s grieving parents were on a beach in Wisconsin, Eliana’s mother Liz waded out in Lake Michigan until she stood waist-deep in the water.  A pair of Monarch butterflies flew out over the water and circled over her for a long time. More Monarchs circled Chris, Eliana’s father, as he sat on the beach.

When our hearts were heavy at a family reunion later that summer, the sight of all those healthy babies and toddlers too painful to bear, my daughter Shannon and I went for a long walk. A pair of Monarch butterflies, who had been hovering around the reunion, left it and followed us. They stayed near us continually, as we walked up the beach, and as we walked back.

One July morning, a Monarch preened itself on a low bush at the edge of the prairie garden I had planted for Eliana, as I was taking pictures to send to my family. Darn it if that Monarch didn’t fly INTO every single picture I took. It wasn’t until I was looking at the pictures later that morning that I realized that today was Eliana’s father’s birthday. It was as if that Monarch was bound and determined to get into every picture, to give Eliana’s father a present, to tell him that Eliana was alive in heaven, and doing all right.

Three years after Eliana’s death, in 2019, I was sitting on my deck at 7:00 a.m. on another beautiful July morning. My heart was heavy. I felt anxious. We had been so sure that my husband Frank’s cancer was all gone. Now it was back.

I’d been reading about the heart of love that is God, and how His beloved ones can rest in His heart and trust in His love, always. But today it just felt like words on a page.

I felt lonely, estranged from God and angry. I wanted to shout, “How could you do this to us after everything we’ve been through?”

I looked up and saw a Monarch butterfly in flight. It landed in Eliana’s garden. I felt astonished and joyful.  Usually, we never see butterflies until much later in the day. They cannot fly until the sun has dried the dew on their bodies.

I hesitated, knowing that the butterfly would probably fly away before I got close. But a picture of a Monarch in Eliana’s garden would mean so much to my family.

I inched closer, phone in hand.

Sure enough, I took one step too many. The butterfly rose up and flew into the neighbor’s yard. I followed it with my eyes, gratitude in my heart. At least I got to see it, even though I didn’t get a picture.

I looked back at Eliana’s garden. There was a second Monarch butterfly, clinging to a branch right in front of me. I quickly snapped one picture after another. A warm feeling flooded my heart. A pair of Monarchs. Just like when we were grieving for Eliana. A pair of Monarchs, sent to reassure and comfort us. “You are not alone,” I heard, in my heart. “You were not alone after Eliana died, and you will not be alone as you go through this next round of cancer treatment.”

Back on my deck, I flipped through the pictures, and smiled.  In the tiny picture on my phone, the Monarch in the garden was surrounded by so many leaves and flowers that it was almost impossible to see.

I sent a picture to my family anyway, telling them that a Monarch was embedded in the picture, even if they couldn’t see it.

“Just like my love for you,” a reassuring voice whispered in my heart.  “You can’t always see the Monarch in the picture, though he is truly there.  Even though you can’t always see it or feel it, my love for you is truly there. Always.”

NOTE: Frank finished his radiation treatments and is in remission now.