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Stand near a bright light on a summer evening, and I guarantee you’ll see at least one.  They’re the nocturnal counterpart to butterflies, little feathery creatures that seem to float through the sky.  I’m talking, of course, about moths. 

Now, I’ll admit that most of us don’t consider these creatures to be particularly extraordinary.  They’re not as flashy as butterflies.  They’re not as glamorized by artists.  They’re quiet and humble and incredibly easy to overlook.  But last summer, I realized just how wondrous a moth truly is—because God gave me a front-row seat to a miracle.

It happened in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.  My parents and I were traveling a popular hiking trail in a wooded area, a place where a gentle forest spread protective arms around a creek that slipped and skipped over smooth stones.  As we walked through this pristine setting, my mom suddenly paused to examine something on the ground.  “Wait…what’s this?”

As I peered at her find, I was uncertain at first.  Then I realized that it was something about which I’d read, but never seen—a developing moth.

You see, when moths initially hatch from eggs, they are in the form of caterpillars, worm-like wrigglers that munch on vegetation and scoot along the ground.  Then they enter what is technically called the pupal phase. During this life stage, they burrow underground and build a hard case, called a cocoon, around themselves and quietly transform into their familiar winged versions.

But when they first emerge from the cocoon, they’re not yet complete—they’re wet, awkward, and still underdeveloped.  Their wings are limp tatters, their bodies still slimy with the fluid from the cocoon.  This one we found certainly gave no clue that it would soon be a splendid creature as it dragged itself across the dirt of the trail.  It was candy-striped green and white, its body about the size of my thumb, with frilly antennae and a tiny shred of yellow like a collar around its neck.  Yet still, I knew that despite its comical appearance, it was a miracle—a miracle that was about to unfold right in front of us.

Our primary obligation was to move it out of the hiking trail and to a place where it could begin its drying process free from the perils of careless feet.  We gently scooped it onto a stick and carried it to the edge of the woods.  There, it at first seemed to bumble around helplessly, but soon it made its way to a tree and began crawling up the rough trunk.  About two feet from the ground, it paused, anchored its feet to the crevices of bark, and arched its back with an evident sense of purpose.  It was time for those tiny shreds of yellow to become wings—and as the first hint of green crept into their already-elongating folds, I recognized this little creature as one of the most amazing and gorgeous of the moths—a Luna moth.  

If I could, I’d whisk you away with me to that afternoon in the little cluster of woodland, and we’d stand in silence together and watch the miracle unfold.  I’m grasping for descriptions, fumbling for adjectives, but all my words seem too clumsy, too inadequate.  How can I explain what we felt as, our hike forgotten, my parents and I stood silently in the oblique gold of a late summer afternoon and gazed at the enfolding splendor?

Slowly the puffy body narrowed and tapered into elegance.  Slowly those puny rags lost their wet, fragile look.  Yet quickly, too—so quickly we could almost see the movement—the papery yellow appendages were spreading into beautiful pearlescent wings, the lemon-yellow color being subtly replaced by the ethereal chartreuse of the adult Luna moth.  It was a prayer to see the lower wings emerge, the veining pattern appear, the frail curl that I had lamented as a tear in the wing unfold into the gorgeous tails of the Luna.  The little “worm” that had looked so pathetic, deformed, even absurd, was now a graceful Luna, adjusting to the weight of its newfound wings.  And there in the early evening, the trees like a cathedral overhead, the sun’s last song bathing the moth in glory, we felt sure that God Himself was hovering over the moth, and we couldn’t be anything besides amazed and worshipful.  The wonder sank into every inch of my being, and my tears overflowed with my praises to the God Who made such miracles.  

It’s strange, really.  I’ve had so many amazing experiences in nature.  I’ve watched dozens of bison shamble across the prairies, heavy heads swinging, wise eyes glinting.  I’ve stood in early-evening meadows when the shadows seep down the mountainsides and heard the yipping of the coyotes begin along the treeline.  I’ve climbed to the roof of Yosemite, among the mighty granite peaks, and looked over the world as I stood in the drenching spray of a waterfall.  And yet I can say with certainty that one of the most profoundly significant experiences I’ve had in nature was standing in the lazy July afternoon, sweat running down my back and hair curling from the humidity, watching a clownishly striped worm soak in grace and unfold into the majesty of a moth.  I think that, perhaps, this encounter was so significant to me because I can identify with that moth.  And maybe you can too.

You see, just like this moth, we are all in the process of becoming.  From the moment when we first put our hands in God’s, when we first decide to follow His way and not ours, we undertake a great challenge—to learn how to live as children of the Most High.  Just as children mature into adults, so we are unfolding into the people God calls us to be.  And this growth is not encapsulated in a trendy self-help book or a five-step Bible study or a handful of catchy life hacks.  Instead, it’s a process—slow, deliberate, ongoing.  

And this process can be less than pleasant.  After all, sometimes God asks us to undertake challenges that yank us out of our comfort zones or examine areas of our hearts we’d rather ignore.  Other times, we become bored by the mundanity of the process—longing for “big” assignments and losing sight of the whisper of grace in day-to-day life.  And at still other times, we sink in discouragement over the tiny increments of our growth. Perhaps we don’t feel that we’re progressing as fast as we “should” be, or we writhe in humiliation when we compare our character to that of other Christians, or reading the Gospels leaves us feeling as if we’ll never measure up.  

I know I’ve been there—groaning in the growing.  And I suspect you may have too.  So today, I’m pointing you to that tree with that clinging moth and offering some encouragement.

First of all, remember that God is patiently working on us.  That means He’s working on the big days, the days when we reach a mountaintop of progress and look back with exhilaration on the milestones we’ve conquered.  But that also means that He’s working on the quiet days, the sad days, the less-than days when we wish we could pray more eloquently, or perform more perfectly, or love more selflessly.  I’m reminded of how quietly the moth grew, how its transformation was so utterly without fanfare.  Dare to believe that even in the moments that seem devoid of purpose and barren of opportunity, we can relax into the knowledge that God is gently molding us into His image.  And better still, we’re guaranteed that He won’t leave us as works in progress.  Writing to the Philippian church, Paul assured the new converts that “He who began a good work in you will carry it to completion” (Philippians 1:6).  God never abandons a project or scraps an idea.  He doesn’t get bored and capriciously hop to the next challenge.  He keeps working on a person until He brings them to completion.  And what is “completion” for us?  It’s the day we’re presented blameless to God as the chosen ones of Christ.  What an amazing reward that will be!  

And while God works on us, what is our role?  Think again about the moth.  What was it doing to further its own growth?  Was it vigorously straining its tiny wings, trying to force them to open?  Was it impatiently shifting position, wondering why it wasn’t ready to fly yet?  Was it fretting that it possibly wasn’t “good enough” for its wings to develop?  Of course not.  It was simply resting, clinging trustingly to the rough bark of the tree and allowing time and grace to take their course.  And that’s what we’re called to do.  We hold fast to Christ as our anchor, and then we allow His work in our lives to develop and be made manifest.  

Now, does this mean we have absolutely no role to play in our own growth?  Does this mean we can neglect our spiritual health and scoff at the consequences?  Absolutely not.  There’s a huge difference between waiting and wasting.  An attitude of wasting refuses to adopt healthy practices, using God’s direction of growth as an excuse for apathy and disregarding whether growth even happens at all.  Waiting, however, is trusting God to produce fruit in us while we day by day obey Him in tiny steps.  You see, we continue to align ourselves more and more with His character—but we don’t push ourselves mercilessly and then sink into despair when we stumble.  Growth should always emerge from a place of rest and trust, not a feverish squeeze of work and white-knuckle effort.  Remember, “It is God Who is working in you both to will and to work His good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13).

This leads to the final lesson, one I’ve often struggled to accept:  we are as complete in Christ the moment we trust Him as we are after we’ve been growing in Him for decades.  To understand this, picture that moth’s transformation again.  It was so beautiful when it was fully changed.  Yet it was still 100% Luna moth when it was merely a funny-looking worm wiggling along the ground.  Its essence was always that of a gorgeous moth—even when its appearance was less than breathtaking.  Its identity didn’t change depending on whether its wings were completely open, or halfway open, or still little wet shreds.  

My friends, right now, God sees us as complete in Him.  He sees us from the point of view of eternity—safe in His arms, the people He designed us to be.  He sees us as clothed in Christ—our shortcomings filled with grace, our sins blanketed by righteousness.  Do we still have growing to do?  Of course—we’ll never be finished this side of Heaven.  But does our growth determine our standing with Him?  Does it dictate who He says we are?  Can our successes or failures alter His promises?  Absolutely not.  Relax in the knowledge that growth does not determine your standing.  You are forever His chosen child, and nothing you could ever do would shake that identity.  

Growth.  Transformation.  Becoming.  Those words will always remind me of a still afternoon in the Tennessee mountains watching God shape one of His most delicate creations.  Seeing the glory unfold was a miracle—I’ll never doubt that.  But you know what?  The greater miracle is when God pours His glory into the life of a person.  It’s a quiet miracle, and it takes some time.  But we are His, and we are becoming, if we will only wait and trust Him.  Like the moth, let’s cling tightly to our truest Anchor and wait for our wings to expand—knowing that the Lord of all will tell us when to fly.

Did you enjoy this blog? What beauty are you finding in your own process of growth and becoming? Let me know in the comments!

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