Just weeks before my beloved father, Meyer died in January, 1990, a miracle happened that unleashed a “butterfly spirit” within me. It gave me unique insight about radical change and the human spirit – in life and after death. It launched my personal legacy…
Photo by Nancy Beringer.
It began on a snowy Sunday, while my husband, Bill and I were relaxing on the couch in our family room, watching my hometown football team, the Pittsburgh Steelers, battle the Denver Broncos in a playoff game. Suddenly, I noticed something large and black fly to the wall above our TV cable box.
“Did you see that?,” I asked Bill. Absorbed in the game, he barely looked up.
I tiptoed over to take a closer look. A beautiful, big black butterfly greeted me. I studied the bright blue and yellow dots that lined the bottom tips of its wings.
Soon, Bill joined me. We decided it must have formed in a chrysalis on one of the plants we brought in from our deck before the first frost. We clicked off the TV.
The fragile creature would die if I put it outside in the 20-degree cold. My “inner caregiver” kicked in, as I assumed responsibility for the proper care and safety of our new houseguest, but I had no clue about what to feed a butterfly. So, I called the entomology department at Rutgers University and left a message.
Within the hour, a professor from the department returned my call, surprised by my message. He told me he’d heard of this happening with other insects, but never a butterfly. He gave me a recipe for nectar to feed it and instructed me to only drizzle it on fresh flowers. I mixed a batch, then lightly spooned some on a holiday flower arrangement received just days earlier from friends. Our butterfly immediately made a beeline for the flowers, began feeding and kept at it, while I carefully carried the floral arrangement with our winged ward slowly up the stairs and placed it on a table into a spare bedroom to keep it safe.
From then on, each morning, I concocted a fresh batch of food, brought it up to the bedroom and drizzled it on the flowers for my butterfly friend. Whenever I entered the room, he seemed happy to see me – closely circled around me, often lighting on my head, shoulders or an arm. After several days of this, I tried something new. I put some nectar in the palm of my hand and walked into the room. He flew into my cupped hand and calmly began feeding. I inched my palm up, right in front of my face. Eyeball to eyeball with the butterfly, I watched his proboscis unfurl into the nectar, as if drinking it from a straw.
While he fed from my hand, he allowed me to slowly pet him with my fingertip along the entire length of his body. That’s when I became aware this was no ordinary butterfly and that our connection held special meaning, but didn’t yet know what it was about.
Two weeks later, on a Friday night, as I was getting ready to pick Bill up at the train station in Trenton, I got the strangest feeling that our butterfly had died. I went up to the bedroom and found it dead on a wooden floor plank.
As the “baby girl” of our family, I always had a very special bond with my Dad. I knew in my heart that the butterfly was somehow tied to his spirit, signaling that he would soon die. Dad passed away in Pittsburgh weeks later on January 25.
Thus, began my soulful connection with the black swallowtail butterfly and the spirit of my father. Over the years, Bill and I had frequent sightings of a black swallowtail in the most unusual places and times of the year. They happened so often we came to take them for granted. Whenever we saw one, I’d automatically say, “Hi, Dad,” and Bill would say, “Hi, Meyer.” One followed us around the reservoir at Woodstock, NY. Another parked itself next to my shoulder on a ferry trip across the Hudson River. The sightings kept coming, sealing our ongoing “romance” with the butterfly for decades.
On April 19, 2010, the day after my dear husband and partner in all things died, following a long battle with cancer and dementia, I needed to know that he was truly at peace. In my last moments with him at the funeral home, I asked directly, “Bill, are you at peace? It would mean so much to me if you could show me a sign. Maybe you can come back as a butterfly?”
In my normal conversational tone, I even joked, “…but don’t come back as a black swallowtail or I won’t know the difference between you and Dad.” Chuckling, I added, “With your ego, you’ll likely come back as a monarch.” Then, I got serious, and asked for even more.
“Bill, I know this is a long shot, but if you reconnect with Dad and both come back to me together, as butterflies, even for a moment, that would be the best gift ever! In my last moments, I left pictures, prayed, told Bill I loved him and asked him to give Mom, Dad, Grandpa and some of my favorite aunts and uncles my love.
The next day at Bill’s church, I met with the parish officiant, the reverend Mother Lois to first finalize details of his short burial ceremony only days away in the memorial garden. Then, we planned the formal celebration of his life, scheduled for two months later on the day before Father’s Day. I also shared Dad’s butterfly story and my special last requests of Bill.
Mother Lois explained that butterflies have symbolized the spirit of departed loved ones for thousands of years. She’d heard many stories about butterfly sightings, especially after the deaths of a parent or spouse. Knowing our deep love for each other, Mother Lois assured me that Bill heard me and would do his best to honor my requests.
It was overcast and chilly as we stepped outside, walked through the memorial garden and paused by the fountain. In less than 30 seconds, a 2-inch pure white butterfly flew around us. Mother Lois exclaimed, “See, he’s here already!” After she left, I watched the delicate white specter land on a tiny shrub along side the church wall. Standing by my car, I crossed my arms, stared down at the creature, then challenged, “If you really are Bill, come over here and let me know you’re okay.” It flew towards me, circled twice around my car, then soared off, never to be seen again.
I knew I had just witnessed another miracle. Bill found his way to show me he was at peace, honoring my first request. With the “white butterfly” theme for the program and flowers, we held a joyous celebration of Bill’s illustrious life, with stories, music and prayer. I took some time for reflection, but felt recovered enough two weeks later to return to work on-site for a client. I awakened early to get ready, stepped downstairs to make my morning coffee, and took a peek outside the laundry room window at the butterfly bush next to our deck. It was covered with 16 large yellow and black striped tiger swallowtail butterflies and one lone black one with a tear in its right wing. Could this be Bill’s way of telling me that he had shed his temporary white cloak and now his spirit was swathed in ‘tiger swallowtail’ colors?
Forcing my thoughts to shift to other things, I readied myself and drove off to work. Later that day, I arrived back at home. I walked down the driveway toward the empty recycling and garbage containers by the curb, ready to move them back in the garage. Quickly, my eyes caught sight of two butterflies – a tiger swallowtail and the same wounded black one from the morning flying in tandem.
With their wings touching, they flew right toward me and into my left chest area above my heart, then turned and took off. First, I stood in silence, too stunned to move. Then, I began clapping and weeping. I knew my beloved Bill had connected with Dad’s spirit and just granted my second request.
Since then, clear sightings still come, especially when I’ve been reminiscing about Bill or Dad or when I need reassurance. Usually over two or three days, I’ll see one butterfly, then the other in sequence. Sometimes, they appear together on my butterfly bush, on shrubs in the memorial garden or they’ll just show up in my daily travels. Often, it’s just one, when I ask for it.
The last times I discovered they had my back were the days before Hurricane Irene and Superstorm Sandy hit New Jersey. On schedule, they both showed up to give me the signal I’d be okay. Each time, my home and I miraculously made it through, while neighbors weren’t so lucky. On the Sunday following Sandy in early November, I spotted a black swallowtail flash across the front of my house as if to check things out.
On a recent trip to Key West, a favorite place of Bill’s and mine, I was thinking of him when a huge tiger swallowtail literally crossed my path on a cobbled walkway near the entrance to the Botanical Gardens. He was lying flat on the stone, moving, but unable to fly. So, I gently bent down and reached out to him with a folded piece of paper. He climbed aboard, then into the cup of my hand. I held him close in both hands. He snuggled up my chest to my heart area, then up my neck under my ear. I held him closer to me, pet and even kissed him, saying, “I love you, too, sweetheart!” We remained calmly connected, romancing like that for almost an hour. About to leave the Gardens, I gently placed him on a fragrant bloom of a lush gardenia bush set back from the walkway and whispered, “Until we meet again.” My “Butterfly Legacy” continues…
