On a beautiful August evening with not even a hint of wind, families gathered at Sertoma Park for a memorial butterfly release hosted by AseraCare Hospice. This was not an event just for those who had lost a child. It was for anyone who had lost a loved one, and the park was filled with people carrying grief of every kind, for spouses, parents, siblings, friends, and children alike. A live orchestra played as the evening began, filling the park with music instead of silence.
An Evening Held By Grief And Love
AseraCare Hospice asked me to serve as the keynote speaker for the evening. Over the past eight years since losing Emily, I have learned so much about grief, enough that I eventually became a certified grief educator along the way. I wanted to leave everyone in that park with a message of hope, the same message I try to offer the members of our Emily’s Hope support group for those who have lost a loved one to substance use. My remarks that night came from my own experience of losing a child, but the truth in them, and the symbolism of the butterfly itself, belongs to anyone who has loved someone and lost them. Grief does not ask how we are related to the person we are missing.
I had the honor of speaking to the group that evening. Here is what I shared.
We are gathered here tonight because each of us carries a love that has nowhere left to go, and we wanted a place to bring it. There are no words, nothing I can say, that adequately describe the loss of a child. I have said, it’s like a hole in my heart, that will never heal. No matter how we lost a a loved one or at what age, we lost something that we can never replace and something that seems impossible to live without. Yet, we go on. We do keep living and we carry them in our hearts.
The butterfly did not begin its life this way. It began as a caterpillar, moving slowly and close to the ground, never imagining what it would become. Then came the cocoon, a season of stillness and struggle that looked, from the outside, like nothing at all was happening. But inside, everything was changing. That is grief. That is what we have lived through since we lost our loved ones. We entered a cocoon we did not choose, and much of the struggle was invisible to everyone else. We did not think we would survive it, yet here we are, tonight, still standing.
When a butterfly finally emerges, it does not fly far or fast right away. It rests. It lets its wings dry in the sun before it trusts them to carry it into the sky. We have had to learn to trust our own wings again too, gently, in our own time, without shame for how long it has taken.
I think of one butterfly in particular. When Emily was in third grade, she brought home a chrysalis in a mason jar for a school project. We watched it change, and when the butterfly finally emerged, we carried it into our backyard together to set it free. Emily opened the jar, and for a moment the butterfly just sat there. Then it lifted off, and instead of flying away, it circled back and landed right on her shoulder. It stayed there for a moment before it took off for good. I have never forgotten that. It felt like a thank you, from the butterfly, from God, from the universe, however you want to name it. I remember the joy on Emily’s face in that moment, the pure delight of having given something its freedom. That was the first time I remember feeling like a butterfly could carry a message.
Emily had a phrase she used to say, “paint the skies.” Now, whenever I see a sunset with those deep oranges and purples and blues and yellows all mixed together, I think of her. I believe that is her spirit, still painting the skies for us.
In cultures around the world, the butterfly is seen as a symbol of the soul, of transformation, and of the connection between this world and the next. Some believe that when a butterfly visits us, it carries a message from someone we love who is no longer here. Whether or not we believe that literally, I think most of us in that circle have felt it: a butterfly landing nearby on a hard day, appearing at a funeral, or showing up on a birthday when we needed a sign. In that moment, we let ourselves believe our loved ones are near.
That night, when we released our butterflies, we were not letting go of our beloved. We were releasing our love for them into the world, the same way they have been released from pain and into whatever comes next. We were trusting that even though we could not see where they would land, they were still out there, still connected to us, still loved beyond measure.
Our children may not be physically present with us on this Earth, but they are in every breeze, every flap of a butterfly wing, and always just a thought away.
Most importantly, our children loved us as much as we loved them and they would want us to live our lives to the fullest. But how do we do that with a hole in our hearts? We do it by taking the next step forward and then the next step forward, allowing love to heal us, while always honoring their memory.
I closed with a poem by J. Raymond, called “Still Shining.” It captured exactly what our hearts wanted to say that night.
“Still Shining” J. Raymond
I could allow the grief to bury me alive.
Just let the loss of you
crush whatever’s left of me.
But you’re not a memory,
you’re a light still shining.
Burning bright, and something I carry with me.
When I speak of you,
I do so without remorse.
I beam with pride.
I speak of your exuberance.
I give them your energy.
I tell them you were art embodied.
Dancing avant-garde, bold and beautiful. Where you went, sunshine followed.
I tell them that you made life musical.
Every smile, a song.
Every laugh, a celebration.
Your life, your light,
changed me in the greatest of ways.
All the love shared between us doesn’t cease simply because you’re not beside me.
You’re within me.
My skin and bones.
My heart and soul.
The air I breathe.
The sun I stand beneath.
You are all around.
You are everything that made me.
And that sort of light never fades.
I’ll take all the love we shared,
and continue sharing it.
The Release
Each person had been given a small pink envelope holding a butterfly. One by one, names were read aloud, and as each name was spoken, that person opened their envelope. The butterfly would flutter for a moment, testing its wings in the open air, before lifting off into the evening sky. With no wind at all that night, we could watch each one rise and drift for as long as it wanted before it finally flew off, taking our love with it.
If you would like to learn more about our Emily’s Hope Support Group for people who have lost someone to substances, take this link.
Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela
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