Lilacs, Butterflies and the Grace to Let Go

This morning, I stepped outside and the lilacs had opened.

Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough to scent the air with something soft and almost sacred. And as I stood there, breathing it in, they came—quiet visitors drawn to what was blooming.

A Eastern Tiger Swallowtail drifting wide and golden through the branches.

A Red Admiral resting for just a moment, wings opening and closing like breath.

They didn’t stay long.

They never do.

But they came. And in their coming, something in me recognized it—not as random, not as fleeting in a meaningless way—but as a kindness. A gentle, undeserved delight. The kind a Father gives without announcement.

And as quickly as they arrived… they were gone.

Lilacs still blooming.

Fragrance still lingering.

But the visitors had moved on.

And standing there, I felt the whisper of something deeper:

Not everything sent to you is meant to stay with you.

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I have spent twenty years learning that truth in ways I never would have chosen.

Sitting across from those who spoke beautifully but could not stand in truth.

Offering something real—something anchored—and watching it be received only until it required depth in return.

Feeling the quiet shift when someone decides, internally, they are already gone… even before they say it out loud.

And more recently, feeling it in ministry.

Inviting women into something rooted, something covered, something meant to grow deep in Christ… and watching them step away when the Word begins to press beyond comfort.

And if I’m honest, there has been a question beneath all of it: Why does this keep happening?

And more importantly—why does Jesus allow it?

Because if something is real… if it is built on truth… shouldn’t people stay?

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But Scripture does not support that assumption.

It dismantles it.

There is a version of Jesus we prefer—the one who gathers, heals, restores, and keeps.

But the full revelation of Christ shows us something more unsettling: Jesus also lets people leave.

In John 6, He teaches with clarity—unfiltered, uncompromising truth about who He is. And the response is not deeper devotion.

It is departure.

“From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more.” (John 6:66, NKJV)

Not strangers.

Not skeptics.

Disciples.

People who had been near Him… who had listened… who had followed.

And still—they left.

Because there comes a moment when proximity to truth is no longer enough. You are either willing to be formed by it… or you are confronted by it.

And not every heart chooses formation.

Jesus knew that.

And He did not chase them.

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This is where something shifts, if we let it.

Because we have been taught—subtly, but deeply—to measure the health of something by who stays.

In relationships.

In ministry.

In influence.

We think: if it’s right… it will be retained.

But Jesus never measured that way.

After many left, He turned to the twelve and asked:

“Do you also want to go away?” (John 6:67)

He made room for their leaving. Because what He was building could not be sustained by persuasion.

It had to be anchored in revelation.

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If you don’t understand this, you will spend your life trying to hold together what God is allowing to separate.

You will over-explain truth to those who resist it.

You will extend grace where there is no surrender.

You will call misalignment “a season” and avoidance “wounding.”

I know, because I have done it.

There is a particular heartbreak in giving something sacred to someone who only wanted something convenient.

Who wanted connection… but not transformation.

Affection… but not alignment.

Access… but not accountability.

And when truth begins to require something of them—they don’t deepen.

They depart.

And if you do not understand what is happening spiritually, you will make their leaving mean something about your worth.

Was I too much?

Too anchored?

Too unwilling to bend?

But Jesus answers that question clearly:

He was none of those things.

And still… they walked away.

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Consider the rich young ruler.

He comes sincere. Respectful. Morally disciplined.

The kind of man we would say, “This has potential.”

And Jesus, seeing into the heart, touches the one place not surrendered.

And the man walks away.

Sorrowful… but unchanged.

And Scripture says:

“Jesus, looking at him, loved him.” (Mark 10:21)

He loved him.

And He let him go.

That is the kind of love we are being formed into.

Not love that clings.

Not love that reshapes truth to maintain connection.

But love that is so anchored in God… it can release what refuses to align.

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And this is where it becomes deeply personal.

Because if I look back honestly, I did not always love like that.

I loved with an undercurrent of fear.

Fear of being left.

Fear of being unseen.

Fear that if I didn’t hold it together, it would fall apart.

So I stayed longer.

Explained more.

Carried what was not mine to carry.

And I called it love.

But it wasn’t the love of Christ.

Because His love is never detached from truth.

And it is never driven by fear.

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There is something sacred that happens when this truth finally settles: Not everyone who comes into your life is meant to remain in it.

Not everyone drawn to what is blooming in you is willing to be rooted in it.

Some will come like butterflies—drawn to the fragrance, resting for a moment, adding beauty to the season…And then they will go.

And that does not diminish what God has grown in you.

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Even in ministry.

Even in the spaces you have prayed over, built carefully, and offered with a pure heart.

Jesus taught perfectly… and still people left.

So we must release the belief that if we do it “right,” no one will walk away.

That belief will exhaust you.

Because it places the responsibility for other people’s response in your hands.

And that was never your assignment.

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The invitation is deeper than that.

To stand in truth… and not chase what leaves.

To offer something real… and not dilute it to increase acceptance.

To love fully… and still release freely.

Because Jesus never ran after those who rejected truth. But He always received those who returned in surrender.

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So now, when someone leaves—quietly or abruptly, relationally or within ministry—I am learning to ask a different question.

Not, What did I do wrong?

But, What was revealed?

Because leaving reveals alignment.

It reveals what someone is willing—or unwilling—to submit to.

And once something is revealed, striving is no longer your role.

Standing is.

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The lilacs are still blooming.

The fragrance still fills the air.

The butterflies came… and they went.

And none of it was wasted.

Because even the briefest visit can carry beauty… without carrying permanence.

And even the deepest heartbreak can carry truth… without defining your worth.

Jesus was never abandoned by truth—even when He was abandoned by people.

And neither are you.

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Prayer:

Lord, thank You for the beauty You allow me to experience—even in fleeting moments. Thank You for what You are growing in me that does not depend on who stays. Heal every place where I have held on out of fear, and teach me to love the way You love—fully, truthfully, and freely. Give me the courage to release what is not aligned, and the peace to trust that You are faithful in both the giving and the taking away. Anchor me in You alone.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Scripture (NKJV):

John 6:66–67; Mark 10:17–22; Matthew 26:50; 2 Timothy 4:3–4

Core Thought:

Not everyone drawn to what God is doing in your life is willing to be formed by it. Jesus Himself let people walk away when truth confronted them.

Reflection Questions:

• Where have I been trying to keep what God is allowing to leave?

• Have I mistaken someone’s departure as a reflection of my worth?

• What would it look like to trust God with both the coming… and the going?