Peace

I found it years ago, on my workbench.
A butterfly. A yellow swallowtail with bold black stripes.
Perfect. Still. Wings fully open like it had just landed for a moment—and then… let go.

It hadn’t folded up in defense. It hadn’t struggled. It just stopped, in the middle of the mess, between my hammers and feed scoops, as if to say, this place will do.

And something about that felt… holy.

Not in the stained glass kind of way. In the real kind of way. The kind that slips in quietly and finds you elbow-deep in the chaos of daily life. The kind that makes you stop mid-step, heart thudding with something too big to name.

I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Or bury it. Or brush it aside like just another thing that didn’t belong. So I carried it to the house with both hands like I was holding something sacred. And I placed it, gently, in an empty drawer of my old roll-top desk—not with the paperclips or the clutter of the other drawers, but in its own little space. Quiet. Undisturbed.

Because it deserved that.

It’s still there.

All these years later, that butterfly hasn’t changed. The world around it has—storms have come, animals have gone, people I love have aged, or moved on, or passed—but the butterfly remains. A moment frozen in time, wings outstretched, still perfect.

Sometimes when I’m digging through that desk, looking for something I’ve misplaced (usually patience, if we’re being honest), I open that drawer by accident. And there it is again. Waiting. Whole. Beautiful.

And suddenly the noise quiets. My hands stop moving. My breath slows.

And I remember.
To pause.
To soften.
To just be.

That butterfly has become a kind of stillness I carry with me. Not in my pocket or wallet or on a keychain, but tucked deeper—where weariness lives, and memory settles, and faith occasionally flickers.

It reminds me that beauty doesn’t always shout.
Sometimes it whispers from a drawer you forgot you had.
Sometimes it lands in your life and never really leaves.

Because peace isn’t something you chase.
It’s something you notice—when you finally stop moving long enough to see it was there all along.

 

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