As promised . . .



My camera and tripod . . . and Hope.

Just about two weeks ago, I spent a Sunday morning in my garden. That is not all that unusual for me because I spend time almost every morning in my garden. The unusual part, though, was that I got to witness one of my very own Monarch butterflies take her first flight after emerging from her chrysalis. The story of how she even came to exist makes my husband laugh and he constantly reminds me every time I run outside when I spy a Monarch in my garden. :-)


Back in January, while the snow fell and the wind howled, I ordered some milkweed plants from QVC (  http://www.qvc.com/ ). The host and the company representative from Roberta's Gardens ( http://robertasgardens.net/ ) pointed out that the plants would arrive at just the right time for planting in my area and that they would attract butterflies during the coming summer. The plants were shipped, but they arrived a tad early for planting. We were still having some frosty nights. I waited until the threat of frosts passed and on a warm spring day, I dug six holes along the east side of my perennial garden. I decided that since these plants had the word "weed" in their name, I couldn't take them too seriously; so I relegated them to a lonely existence along the garden's edge. They were weak and spindly and I pretty much decided they would probably never survive. Every time my husband, Paul, and I were on the deck overlooking the garden, or tending other plants, he heard me call those weak and defenseless little plants names. I had no faith in them. I referred to them as those stupid, stinkin' milkweeds. Paul got pretty tired of the daily name calling. He wondered where my farm girl faith had gone. I guess I never really made the connection between the planting and the harvest, although I grew up on a cash crop farm. My father and uncles planted things. They grew. They were harvested. And they were not grown from spindly plants, like my stupid, stinkin' milkweeds. They were grown from seeds! Corn seeds, kidney and white bean seeds, wheat and oat seeds, hay seeds (no pun intended, Daddy), alfalfa seeds, pea seeds and seed potatoes. Seven hundred acres of things that needed to grow so we could all have a roof over our heads, food on the table and clothes on our backs. I don't recall my father walking in and out of the back door lamenting over his fields and calling his money crops nasty names. He had faith, . . . along with some sleepless nights, I'm sure, when there was either too much or too little rain. Miraculously, all six plants grew and they thrived. They blossomed and they attracted Monarch butterflies, just as promised.




Mature Stupid, Stinkin' Milkweed Plant

The Monarchs laid eggs on the milkweed plants and they hatched into caterpillars that showed up in July and August.

Monarch caterpillar devouring an immature milkweed seedpod

The caterpillars feasted on the milkweed leaves and later on they devoured the seed pod casings. The caterpillars disappeared and I was not sure where they went. I figured they were either eaten by birds or drowned in the torrential rains we had over the summer . . . until one day when I spied a curious thing hanging from one of my Russian Sage plants about 20 feet away from the milkweeds. I had recently seen a photo on a friend's Facebook page of a chrysalis and eventually a photo of the Monarch butterfly that emerged. I was thrilled to have my very own chrysalis in my garden! I watched that little thing daily. I took about 50 photos of it, all looking the same, but I was enamored by it! Then on the Saturday before the butterfly emerged, I noticed it was starting to darken. My Internet research revealed it would take a day or two after it turned almost black for a butterfly to emerge.

The chrysalis as it appeared for several weeks.

This smart phone photo is a little blurry, but you can see the color beginning to change from green to black.

On Sunday morning, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went out on the deck overlooking the garden. I noticed the little dot of a chrysalis that I had watched from a distance with squinting eyes for the past few weeks was looking darker, just as promised by my research. I decided this would be a good time to get my camera and tripod out. I had wanted to practice putting my camera on the tripod anyway, so I could use it in my garden to photograph flowers; and I would be able to practice setting it up for the big event when the Monarch would finally emerge. I planned to keep a close watch on it and  hoped I would be home when it happened. I brought the camera and tripod onto the deck and took my time as I fiddled around with getting the camera on securely. I looked out at the garden again and my mouth fell open and I think I squealed. I took a deep breath, thanked God and Jesus, grabbed the camera and tripod and got down the stairs and across the yard as fast as I could. Without time to even set my tripod down, I somehow took a photo with the tripod tucked under my arm. I was shaking from my excitement, and yes, I was crying. I was so happy at the miracle of my very own Monarch butterfly. She was hanging beneath her chrysalis. Her wings were heavy and damp and I knew she needed to dry them in the sunshine before she could take off.

The first photo that I took of her right after she emerged from the chrysalis.

I eventually pulled up a lawn chair and sat with her. I stayed by her side for two hours. She moved away from the chrysalis and onto a branch on the Russian Sage. Then she stretched out her beautiful wings just a few times and took flight. She flew up into a maple tree and I didn't see her the rest of the day. I named her Hope.


The next day I scoured the garden for her, but didn't see her. My heart sank and I worried that she had been eaten by a predator. But, on the following day I saw her fluttering about. I tried to get close for a photo, but she was shy. Eventually she stayed still long enough for me to get a few good shots. It was then that I realized my "she" was a "he", by "her" markings. A black spot on each wing was the key to my discovery. I decided "she" would remain Hope and I didn't change her name. Hope represented the promise of faith to me. I found it easier in the beginning to just give up on the plants when they were spindly and weak. But I watered and fertilized them and they grew. They blossomed and today they are heavy with seed pods full of promise. I am using organza bags to collect the seeds while they are still on the plants. When the dried pods burst inside the bags, the seeds won't be scattered by the wind. I will harvest them and keep them for planting in the spring.

Organza bags tied over the milkweed seedpods

Seeing Hope fly about in my garden fulfilled the promise of those spindly and weak little plants that I gave up on before they even had a chance. This has been a lesson that I can apply not only to my gardening, but to my life. The smallest and weakest among us can thrive if given what they need. For plants, it is sunshine and rain. For people, it is love and compassion . . . not for just the strong and attractive, but for the weak and ordinary. Metamorphosis . . . from a caterpillar to a butterfly . . . is not a new story, but I'm viewing it with new eyes.





Hope. As promised . . .

Thank you for taking the time to read my blog post today. As always, your questions and comments are welcome. And until we meet again, may the Lord hold you in the hollow of His hand.

Emmy