As we were leaving the park, though, our six-year-old discovered a butterfly on a plant. The butterfly’s wings were wet from the recent rains, and our son could hold it as it crawled and creeped from hand to arm to hand. He did not want to leave this beautiful creature that had trusted him enough to hold it.

We talked of what would happen if we took it home. Would it be safe in the car? Probably not. Do we have the right kinds of plants for it to drink? No. He continued to long for the connection he felt, yet he urged the butterfly from his grasp onto a bunch of fuchsia flowers. I felt relieved that he did what was best for the butterfly even though leaving it was difficult for him. I began to walk toward our car with a weight off my shoulders.

Then he called me back. Oh, no. Maybe he had reconsidered. I braced myself for a further plea to take it home, when, as I approached, he said delightfully, “Look, Mom, it’s drinking!” He was an enchanted witness to the beautiful butterfly sipping nectar from the soft deep cove within the flower. His letting go of the butterfly allowed the creature to live and be what it needed to be.

I am grateful for the wisdom of my six-year-old and for the lessons we have learned from a butterfly.