Papillion-ed

On Friday evenings, the parking lot and the place where the buses are parked are a battle zone. People, having put in more hours of work during the week than they’d like to, are always rushing pell-mell as if this is the last weekend they’ll ever get to live. It is almost amusing, how they barely glance at the people to who they wave goodbye every other day of the week.

Everyone’s got something else or the other on their minds. Last Friday, however, a very faith-filled thing happened. There was a man walking towards the buses in front of me. I didn’t notice him until he slowed down, veered off-course and stooped to pick something up.

It was a dying butterfly, the symbol of frailty. It was a tiny quivering mass in his large palm. The man then proceeded to slowly meander through the umpteen people, diagonally cutting through the parking lot (yes, I followed him) and placed the butterfly on the rain-drenched grass under a white-flowered tree. Fitting, I’d say, for something so beautiful. No one else noticed, no one stopped to save a dying butterfly from being trampled upon.

We have become too busy these days. But that butterfly did well to be found by him, and he was made a better man by that act. I get to hold on to faith. Kudos to the butterfly-man!