I BELIEVE IN MAGIC

Ten years ago, a winter Sunday, I drove my silver Xterra through drifts of white Colorado snow and icy streets to an early morning rehearsal at my church. The one that took place in an old, converted movie theatre with its red velvet seats and candy-counter-turned-welcome-desk. I was playing my violin with the band like I did almost every Sunday, in a room filled with 20- and 30-somethings, young families, lots of flannel, ski buffs, mountain climbers, artists, hipsters-before-that-was-a-thing and Jesus lovers. People came scruffy, with coffee in hand, and if you reached far enough under the tiered, old seats, you'd probably feel the sticky residue of old cokes drunk and spilled. Ghosts of movies watched. It wasn't the biggest church in Colorado Springs, but it felt like home to me, the people like family still. 

It was cold that day, the snow thick outside and still clinging to boots. And as I played with the band during the first service, a peculiar thing happened. A summer butterfly flew in the room and landed at my feet. And stayed and stayed and stayed, with velvet wings slowly dancing. And stayed until the music ended, then flew away. 

Winter. Remember? Weird. 

I believe in magic. Not a spooky, witchy kind of magic. I believe in the kind of magic God makes. Oceans. The Northern Lights. Taste buds. Moss. The magic hour He gives photographers. Wrinkles. The chemistry between people. Chameleons. Starlings. Africa and Alaska. That the Vitamin C found in lemons and limes prevents scurvy. That tart cherries are full of melatonin. Geodes. Diamonds. Fire. That unicorns are mentioned in the Old Testament. Romance. Galaxies. The Smokey Mountains. Sharks. People. And especially (for me) butterflies. 

Since that Sunday ten years ago, butterflies have been my thing with God. He uses them to remind me of His nearness in the most peculiar ways. Huge monarchs, I mean huge huge, will circle me. On my walk to work, winter or summer, they'll fly alongside me. Blue-hued butterflies, uncharacteristic on busy Hong Kong sidewalks, will walk timidly into my hand, stay for a while, they fly away.

So, you can usually catch me looking up and around, watching the sky and the ground for my next encounter. I think God likes my anticipation.

Yesterday afternoon, though, I wasn't looking for anything from God. I was kind of done with it for the day. I'd spent all morning praying for my mom, for my family, hoping for good news from her oncologist. Hoping that the pathology was finally back, two weeks after her surgery. Hoping that the Stage 1C he'd originally suspected after surgery was accurate, and that the scary news since surgery (that the mass looked "angry" under the microscope, that pathologists have been having a hard time determining the tumor's origin since cells are so undifferentiated, that we still don't know anything) would be cleared up. Instead, her doctor said we're to continue waiting, that second and third opinions are needed. Several sets of eyes glued to microscopes trying to figure out what we're dealing with. 

After a quick sushi lunch with Jeff, we walked down traffic-heavy Kings Road in Quarry Bay and took the lift up to the 8F. Nearly to my office, a friend stopped me in the hall and asked, "Are you wearing a butterfly?" What? No, of course not. 

But somehow, on my walk from Genki Sushi at Fitfort, an orange and black butterfly had landed on me, ridden with me up the lift, and made my back its home for nearly two hours. I took him on walks around the office, showed everyone. He went with me to meetings, to the bathroom, took phone calls with me. Occasionally opening and closing his wings, proving to everyone he was alive, little heart beating.

My friend Kat told me that the lifespan of butterflies is short. Sometimes only days. She said, "He chose to spend a good part of his life with you." 

I really needed some magic yesterday.