Save us and help us with your right hand, that those you love may be delivered. Psalm 60:5
It was a day for exploring. The little watchtower on the hill invited us in, the locked latch on the door willingly giving way to our tugging fingers.
Inside it was cool and dim. The floor was crunchy with dead Japanese beetles. A cylinder of space rose before us, like standing in a miniature doorway at the bottom of a Pringles can. In the center of the barrel was a thick tree trunk, wrapped around by a spiral of thick wooden steps winding up out of sight.
We looked for a moment at the buggy mounds on the floor, checking for anything living that might creep or crawl in alarming fashion, then started up the stairs.
My gentle niece plodded steadfastly one step at a time, carefully avoiding beetle bodies, while her younger brother scampered up ahead of us, blonde hair bobbing in the half light.
The steps curled up around the trunk a time or two, landing with a thump at a little bare platform in a little bare room overlooking the countryside. A small wobbly bench hesitantly invited us to sit, while a mysterious box of light bulbs sulked on top of an incongruous stool. More insect corpses littered the floor, and the remains of three small birds told a sad tale of fluttering futility.
The room was ringed around by windows, or the remains of windows at any rate. Some openings bore screens with the glass missing, some had glass with the screen missing, and some were a bit of both but not quite enough to cover. It was clear to see how the unfortunate birds had gotten in, and simple to imagine why they been unable to find their way back out.
A white flicker caught my eye. In the corner of one window a moth pecked at the glass, fat fuzzy body bumping against the pane. I imagined his puzzlement as he saw the big white sky just there ahead of him but couldn’t manage to flit off into it. I don’t know how much brain can fit into a moth’s head, but whatever part of it wasn’t occupied with escape must have been filled with vexation at the sight of what he wanted so exasperatingly just out of reach.
My eyes travelled the gloomy occupants of the room. Belly-up beetles dotted the floor, three unlucky birds lay in sad broken heaps of feathers, and one lone moth struggled for freedom.
The thought of the moth’s struggles, the picture of him growing weaker and miserable and eventually becoming one more corpse on the floor, was too much for me. I had to help him.
Catching a moth isn’t easy. The creature easily evaded my fingers as I tried to cup my hands over his frantic wings. His panic grew as my big hands moved in to trap him against the window. I could imagine how terrifying it must feel to see the darkness moving in all around, how much he must have wished to flee the very thing that was his only chance at freedom.
At last I had the moth trapped. Slowly I slid my hands until I had nudged him up onto one of my fingers. I wondered what my warm skin felt like to his tiny insect feet. I cupped my hands around him, careful to avoid injuring the fragile wings that hammered against my fingers. Carefully I carried him away from the window on which he had been beating himself, slid my hands through a slice in the screen nearby, and pulled my fingers apart.
The moth froze for a moment, and then launched himself joyously into the air. As my small friend careened off and away, I couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking. Perhaps he was congratulating himself for his narrow escape from the Dark Scary Thing that had entrapped him, patting himself on his fuzzy back for the courage and determination with which he had battered through that pane of glass.
I smiled and watched him go, knowing he’d never know what I had done for him. That’s the way of it, for moths and for men. Sometimes we don’t know a rescue when we see one.
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I beat my wings, pounding myself against the glass that holds me back from what I can so clearly see before me. Why?? Why can I not go where the way seems so obvious? Why can I not get the peace, the happiness that seems to be just there, just where I ought to be able to grasp it?
Again I thump ahead in a rhythm of confusion, trying and trying with all my small strength to break through the pane that keeps me from what I think I want, determination growing into ferocity. Why? How? Unfair, unjust! I will, I can, I want, I need, unfair, unfair, why, why??
And then things get worse. Scarier. Dark. I lose the semblance of control; life and its bigness sweep over me and the vision of freedom that was before me is blotted out. I batter against the darkness but despair is all that remains. I weep in a heap on my kitchen floor knowing in my core that I and my heart have been hurt beyond repair.
And then…light. Fresh air. A clean , soft breeze. I lift off, free of the glass, free of the sadness and fear and worry. As I soar, I think of the bad, dark time behind me and marvel at my courage, my wisdom and determination that somehow broke through and set me free.
How often, do you suppose, do we silly fuzzy-footed creatures fail to see, in the darkness, our wings beating in vexation, that we are being gently, quietly, lovingly carried to freedom by the hand of our Savior?
For us, small as we are, for us our Jesus wept. For us He lived ferociously. For us and our nothingness he climbed a tree without spiraling stairs, viewed the angry world around Him, and gave His life. Why, why in heaven or on earth, would He then walk away, leaving us to beat against our windowpanes alone?
You see what you want. It’s right there. But you can’t have it. It doesn’t make sense. You flap and struggle but you get nowhere but bruised.
Silly moth. You will keep trying. That’s what moths do. But when it gets dark, and all seems lost…take a moment to consider the feel under your feet. Perhaps…quiet your wings, stop, notice the warmth, notice that you are being gently moved…perhaps what surrounds you is the hand of your Savior, lovingly, gently, carrying you to freedom.
First published in The Alpena News, August 19, 2017.
