All Creation Groans — Even From a Chrysalis
“Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory He will reveal to us later…”
— Romans 8:18–25
There is a groaning in creation.
Not a hopeless groaning.
Not a defeated groaning.
But the kind that precedes glory.
Romans 8 tells us that all creation groans as in the pains of childbirth — waiting, longing, anticipating freedom from decay. And we, too, groan. Even with the Holy Spirit living within us as a foretaste of future glory, we still wait. We still hope. We still ache for what has not yet been revealed.
I never understood that passage quite like I do now… until a caterpillar appeared in a bouquet of flowers.
The Unexpected Guest
On May 28, 2023 — my 49th birthday — my daughter Emery blessed me with a beautiful bouquet from the Hammond Farmer’s Market. Hidden within the dill was something I never expected: a tiny caterpillar egg.
Three days later, I noticed the dill was disappearing. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a glorious green, yellow, black, and white caterpillar happily munching away.
I was captivated.
I spent hours watching him. Videoing him. Studying him. My husband John laughed and said if he had known how entertained I would be by a caterpillar, he would’ve bought me one years ago.
But as the dill dwindled, my “mama instinct” kicked in. I tracked down the farm that sold the bouquet — Yellow Van Farms — and spoke with Destin Sims, who graciously helped me secure more dill so I could keep my hungry little guest thriving.
I had no idea I was about to witness a sermon preached by creation itself.
The Tomb
On June 15, my happy caterpillar stopped eating. By afternoon, he had formed a clear chrysalis — hanging still and translucent.
I was unexpectedly sad.
I missed the movement.
I missed the life I could see.
But I knew what was happening inside.
I identified him as an Eastern Swallowtail butterfly based on his markings. Research told me he would emerge in 8–12 days. I barely left the house during that window. I positioned him on my kitchen counter so I wouldn’t miss the miracle.
Twelve days passed.
Then two weeks.
Then a month.
Nothing.
Doubt began whispering.
Was it dead?
Had I done something wrong?
I later learned I needed to mist the chrysalis so it wouldn’t dry out. I began tending it again — watering it with hope.
Summer passed.
Then fall.
Then winter.
Still no movement.
I painted a rainbow with the words “Hope Arise” and placed it beneath the hanging chrysalis. The Lord reminded me that creation lies dormant in winter — but in its time, it awakens.
So I stopped staring at the tomb.
I moved it to the bathroom window.
From time to time, I misted it with what felt like a mustard seed of faith.
The Empty Tomb
On March 5, 2024 — nine months later (forty weeks!) — I noticed waxy drippings on the glass beneath it. Confused, I tried wiping them away.
Then I looked up.
The chrysalis was empty.
Panic rose in me. I searched the room. Then the house. No butterfly.
Out loud I said, “Jesus, is this how Mary Magdalene felt when she saw the empty tomb?”
I cried, “Where is the butterfly?”
Immediately my eyes shifted to the baseboard near the curtain. And there he was — stretched out in magnificence.
Alive.
Glorious.
New.
I dropped to the floor and watched as his damp wings slowly strengthened. I knew not to touch him — interference could damage what God was forming.
For over an hour, I witnessed the groaning give way to glory.
Nine months. Forty weeks. A full-term transformation.
Hope had emerged.
Set Free
The weather that day was cold and rainy. Research told me I had 24 hours to release him.
The next morning was sunny — 81 degrees.
I placed the netted enclosure on the grass and slowly unzipped it. He paused, as if honoring the journey, then flew upward — beyond the treetops — circling and landing at the top of the tallest tree.
A butterfly lives only about 14 days.
To us, that seems short.
To the butterfly, it is a lifetime.
And it was never designed to live confined.
Lessons From an Eastern Swallowtail
Creation groans.
The caterpillar groaned in the chrysalis.
I groaned in the waiting.
And we groan now — longing for what is not yet fully revealed.
Sometimes the transformation takes longer than expected.
Sometimes what looks dead is simply becoming.
Sometimes the tomb is not a place of loss — but a place of formation.
Romans 8 tells us we wait with eager hope. If we already had it, we wouldn’t need hope. But because we don’t yet see it, we wait patiently and confidently.
Don’t give up hope — even when things feel dead inside.
Yes, something is dying — the flesh, the old self, the former version of you.
But glory is forming.
The empty chrysalis now reminds me of the empty tomb at Calvary.
Death never has the final word.
Hope rises.
And one day, we too will receive our full inheritance as adopted sons and daughters — new bodies, glorious freedom, no more decay.
Until then?
We groan.
We wait.
We mist the promise with mustard-seed faith.
And we trust the Potter with what we cannot yet see.
Hope Arise,
April
P.S. The empty cocoon will forever remind me: He revives what appears lifeless. And He finishes what He begins. 🦋
