The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir by Nancy Stephan Read Free Book Online

out with my being buried on
top.  I can hear it now, Nicole tapping on the bottom of my casket asking me to
come down there so she could show me something.  And once she got me down there
she’d say, “Since you’re here, you might as well spend the night.”  And then
one night would turn into five nights, and then she’d say, “You might as well
just stay.”
    I called the
lady back and gave her the okay on the double plot even though I knew it would
be a waste of money.  After I die, the best option would be to simply open
Nicole’s vault and drop me in with her.  We all know that’s where I’ll end up
anyway.
    On January
14, a little before 2 p.m., we arrived at the cemetery.  The cloudless sky was
a pristine blue.  Nicole’s white casket rested beneath a green canopy that was
decorated with palm fronds.  The wind was so gusty that at one point I thought
the whole canopy would lift off the ground and blow away. 
    We gathered
and took our seats, 15 or 20 of us.  My two friends Calvin Tibbs and Ricky
Hunter would eulogize Nicole.  Both had watched her grow up.  Calvin spoke
first; smiling as big as the day itself, he said the peace and culmination of
joy that we all longed for, Nicole had finally attained, that we would miss her
but that we shouldn’t be sad for her.  Then Ricky spoke; his words brought me a
sense of tranquility. 
    I’ve
known this little girl for many years.  I’ve watched her grow up.  She’s
beautiful, runway beautiful, a model.  There’s one word that sums up who Nicole
was. Nicole was a stalwart.  When she did something, she gave it all she had.
If it was the right decision or if it turned out to be the wrong decision, she
put every bit of herself into it.  She never did anything halfway. 
    Nicole
had been sick for a very long time.  We consider a person lucky if he dies and
is revived, but Nicole died and came back not once, not twice, but three times
or more on separate occasions.  The doctors would say, “We don’t think she’s
gonna pull through this time,” and again Nicole would pull through.  But there
comes a point when one discovers that what’s on the other side is far better
than what’s on this side, and this last time when her heart stopped and she got
a good look at what awaited her on the other side, Nicole said, “I’m not coming
back this time.”
    His final
words, “I’m not coming back this time,” resonated with me because of a
turn of events that, although they involved others, was seen as a whole only by
me.  I had prayed for Nicole endlessly.  On previous occasions when she’d
suffered cardiac arrest, I would stand in the hospital hallway praying, not
that God’s will would be done, not even that Nicole’s will would be done, but
that Nicole not be taken from me.  Each time, she was given back.  But this
last time, with the situation much graver, I prayed a different kind of prayer.
    I remember
the day very well.  It was the Thursday following Nicole’s collapse.  I was
driving home from the hospital to shower and change when I felt a familiar and
undeniable invitation.  Trying to explain what it feels like to be wooed by the
Spirit of God, is like trying to explain the Grand Canyon at sunset.  It defies
language and is only fully fathomed when people experience it for themselves.   The
call is an irresistible one, and I had already begun praying as I turned into
the driveway.
    Barely
inside, I lay on the floor stretched out before the presence of God.   As I
poured out my whole heart, there was intentionality in every word I spoke.  I
told God Nicole’s prognosis, and then I reminded Him of what He said: With
faith, we could command insurmountable mountains, and they would crumble into
the sea.   Because I believe that with God the impossible is possible,
Nicole’s simply waking up was not enough.  Only a complete healing and
restoration would do.  Improbable I know, but faith doesn’t rely on odds