On Navy Pier the other night, as Southern Wisdom and I shared our stories and souls, a butterfly came soaring out of nowhere. I thought it was a bat at first - a deceptive first impression. Then I looked again.I looked down at my feet and saw a wounded butterfly. It was hobbling around. It could no longer fly. It flapped its wings energetically but helplessly. This formerly vibrant butterfly wouldn't give up. It garnered the attention of the collected people at the cafe tables along the lake - everyone's souls seem to sink as they watched it. Nobody did anything to help it - none of us seemed to be sure how we might be able to help.
I can't get that butterfly out of my mind. And, strangely, the timing of its interruption could not have been more metaphorically fitting to the topic of our conversation.
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