This morning the owner of the bank I work at came into the office and walked toward my desk. I sighed inwardly, wondering what new work he was bringing me. Instead, he said I brought you something and deposited on my desk the largest moth I have ever seen.
I gently took it in my hand. Clumsy as hell, it couldn’t stand up straight because its wings were too big, and every time it fell over it would flail its legs wildly, trying to find a grip by which to pull itself along to wherever instinct compelled it to go. It struck me silent, this impossibly ill-conceived machine more beautiful than anything.
I researched it a little later and found out it was a cecropia moth, the largest in North America. The adults live only a week, don’t eat, don’t even have mouths. They emerge from their cocoons, mate as quickly and often as possible, and die. The one I held today was a female, laden with eggs and desperate to deposit them.
I took it back outside, set it on a bush. It could hardly hold on, but I trust it found its way. I don’t know how this too-horny-to-eat-anything, reckless, lovely creature has survived the eons of a nature red of tooth and claw, but it reminded me of a number of people I have known, and I smiled as I walked back inside.
We’re all clumsy and vulnerable as we look for love.
The rest of my day was typical, but it reminded me that wonder greets us daily if we will open our eyes to see it. Grace is never common, no matter what the theologians say.