As much as I prefer to talk about egalitarianism more than feminism, I will admit that I find my own title today a tad triggering. So, to be clear, I'm talking about insects not human females. And this one, known as a damselfly, was indeed in need of rescuing.
My grandmother called them darning needles, and explained that they were a much gentler, more delicate cousin of the dragonfly. Maybe it's the connection to my Gramma, but I've always felt pleased if one came close. We used to hold out our hands and hoped that they'd land.
This one somehow made its way into our kitchen yesterday and was, like most insects, convinced the window was the way to get out, all frenetic with frantic wings and legs. I invited it onto my finger where it immediately clamed down and perched on my nail for the ride. I opened the door and set it free.
And it reminded me of another time, another damselfly, and another moment of tenderness where the Spirit's whisper seemed especially close.
It we here by the water, and I was down on the dock, finished journaling but in no hurry to leave the sunset just yet. It was a period of ministry life where I felt overrun with demands, and feeling not a little bit unnoticed and unappreciated. I knew self-pity wasn't particularly the way to go, but the temptation to make myself my own damsel in distress was there. I breathed in and asked for some truth.
Distracting me from this train of thought, I noticed a fresh and somewhat glistening damselfly crawling on the railing of our swim ladder, trying to fly but then falling and just catching itself in time to right itself and try again.
I coaxed this one onto my finger quite easily, and then noticed that one of its wings was bent under itself. What do I know about these things, but it looked like this little creature had just emerged from its final molt of the aquatic nymph stage in a defective state. I got it into my head that if I could just unfold that defective wing, this little lady might have a chance.
I named her at that point. Twee. It means "excessively or affectedly cute, dainty, quaint or sentimental." Seemed appropriate.
It was delicate work, but I actually could get my fingernail under that wing and almost get it to come back open onto itself. Over and over again I tried. And I would almost get it, but then it would flip back again. Twee stayed with me this whole time, calm, moving just a little, almost as if she was trying to help me help her.
We tried for many minutes. I didn't time it, but now the sun was all the way behind the trees, and that different evening light was making it harder to see the delicacies of the operation. So I knew we'd been at it a while. It seemed now a futile thing.
And I felt sad. A soft kind of sadness, but genuine. I put Twee down again on the ladder railing and wished her well, wanting now to let nature take its course, Perhaps she would just be a meal for another larger creature up the food chain, which while a bit icky, could also be understood as a meaningful contribution to the bay's ecosystem. Or perhaps she could, eventually make her wing work. I hoped the best for her. It may sound silly, but I really did.
And then, just before I got myself up, I "heard" it, however it is that we "hear" these things. A thought, a Voice, a whisper.
"If you could offer as much affection and regard towards a damaged, fragile insect, even to the point of calling her by name, how much MORE do you think I feel for you, dear daughter of My heart?"
I held my breath. There is was. My truth.
I felt wrapped in it.
And that truth is that I am in need of rescuing. I am that damsel in distress, all helpless and vulnerable and broken. The truth is I need Someone stronger to love me, more than any fairytale rescuer could possibly ever, and patiently tend to me in my brokenness....down on the dock...as the sun sets.
But unlike the unknown ending of Twee, "I know Whom I have believed, and am convinced that He is able to guard what I have entrusted to Him until that day" (2 Timothy 1:12).
And, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength" (Philippians 4:13).
And a whole pile of other promises I'll leave to sing another time.
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