I love yellow butterflies

Yellow butterflies. Rays of dancing sunshine that flit and flitter through the air much like Woodstock, Snoopy's sidekick.

Each fall, these whimsical fairies hover near the railroad tracks next to my house and hold their yearly convention among the red flowers that grow there. My little yellow friends. They welcome me and put on a show that could top anything the New York City Ballet has to offer. With synchronized chaos of movement, they twirl upward in tandem pirouettes and then scatter downward to the flowers.

I didn't always love them. I was probably fifty before I even noticed them. Sad, isn't it? I feel like Robert Frost who mourned that "since to look at things in bloom, fifty springs leave little room..." I don't have fifty more springs (or falls) left. I've wasted too much time.

And how many other delightful things have I been too blind to see?

I'm making up for lost time. Now, not one yellow butterfly escapes my notice. Every time one crosses my path, I consider him to be my own special "wink" from Jesus. It lifts my spirit, and I smile.

"God, take the blinders off my eyes. Help me to see, really see the things (or people) You would have me see. Help me pay attention. And be grateful."

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