How will I find you?

There must be some essential part of us that doesn’t change, even though we’re transformed.

“Check this out,” you said, taking my hand and leading me over to the butterfly display. “Ever heard of imaginal discs?”

I tried to concentrate as you nodded toward the glass enclosure then leaned even closer to me, still holding my hand. “When a caterpillar is still inside its egg before hatching, it develops special groups of cells called imaginal discs. They’re like a blueprint of the mature butterfly’s body parts—eyes, wings, legs. Sometimes these cells are dormant until the chrysalis stage; but for other species the discs already begin to form a mini version of the butterfly part inside the caterpillar’s body.” You paused to watch a caterpillar inside the exhibit slowly climb a stalk of vegetation. “You wouldn’t know it to look at it, but that caterpillar could have tiny wings tucked inside its body,” you said softly.

“Then later, do you know what the caterpillar does inside the chrysalis?” You turned to me, your eyes searching my face and relishing the shock you were about to deliver. “It releases enzymes to digest its own tissues! It breaks everything down until it becomes this caterpillar soup . . . the only thing to survive is the imaginal discs. Once everything else is digested, the discs use the protein in the soup around them to start a process of cell division. That process results in the complete formation of the adult butterfly.” You watched me grapple with this mystery and grinned.

You’d caught my attention by the way you listened. Sitting across the table from me in a crisp white shirt, you quietly took in everything I said. I know this because you proved it a week later.

On a sunny September afternoon, we met at the subway. You waited for me at the entrance, then led me through the maze of construction in the parking lot to your Subaru. You opened the door for me; as you walked around to the driver’s side, I remember hoping that I wouldn’t regret getting in your car.

Before putting on your seatbelt, you reached into the back seat then handed me a small stack of paper.

“I remembered that your small group is reading the book of Galatians together,” you said, “so I thought this might be useful.” It was a Galatians study guide, downloaded from the internet and stapled together.

I looked over at you, surprised. “Thank you!”

You smiled and started driving.

You continued to remember details from one date to the next, adding them to our conversations like marbles to a jar. “You have an amazing memory,” I said the next time over dinner.

You shook your head. “I have a horrible memory. I have to write things down.” I imagined you adding notes to a growing file on the trivia of my life: the names of my nieces, the book I’m reading, the animal I most relate to and why. Not for the first time, it made me want to learn more about you.

“What do you find funny?” I asked, taking a bite of the seared tuna we were sharing.

“It depends on who I’m speaking with.”

I thought you’d misunderstood the question, so I finished chewing and tried again. “How would you describe your own sense of humour—sarcastic? Dry? Goofy?”

“It’s not any one way,” you answered. “Based on the other person’s personality, I figure out what they’ll find funny. Like you, for instance. You’re imaginative. You like making things up and enjoy it when others play along.”

I sat back in my chair and stared at the person I was getting to know. “You base your sense of humour on what the other person finds funny?”

“Why not?” you answered. “It’s more fun that way.”

As the weeks went by, I found more to like about you - your passion for helping others, your zeal for problem-solving. You fixed my broken eye shadow compact. We went grocery shopping together. Letting you in to the various parts of my life became natural.

Late one November night, we bundled up to explore the residential streets of my neighbourhood. “I love this one,” I said, pointing. We paused on the sidewalk to look at the warmly lit house. “The big windows, the front porch with Muskoka chairs, the maple tree that’s taller than the house . . . everything about it is perfect.”

“The tree is important, eh?”

“Crucial.”

“Would you want a garden in the backyard?”

“Of course!”

“What would you plant in that garden?”

“Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, swiss chard, squash, herbs . . .” I imagined the feeling of my fingers in warm soil.

“How great would that be, to grow your own food?” you mused. We stood there in silence. You ran your thumb over the back of my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to buy you a house like this one day,” you said.

We walked back to my place. Before getting in your car to drive home, you wrapped your arms around me.

“What are you up to tomorrow?” I asked, looking up into your face.

“Reading.” By this you meant the Bible. I smiled.

“Anything else?”

“That’s pretty much it,” you said.

“You’re just going to . . . read?”

“Life is short,” you replied. “We have a few years and then it’s over. I don’t want to waste my time with anything that’s not important.” I pondered this. I found it admirable on the one hand, but also somewhat unsettling. There was a quality in your voice that I couldn’t yet place. But despite my misgivings, I couldn’t imagine dissuading you from reading the Bible. Maybe there’s never too much of a good thing?

I remember the first time you went silent. I had come to expect day-long text message exchanges with you, and often phone calls in the evening. The first time I checked my phone and saw nothing from you, I imagined you were busy with work, or helping your parents. I waited a few hours, then checked again. Nothing. I delayed sending the first message, not wanting to seem clingy. When I finally managed a sufficiently casual message, the response was slow and chillingly formal. Hello, I hope you had a good day at work and a good conversation with your mom on Tuesday.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

“You seem quiet.”

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Did I do something to upset you?”

All you said was, “It’s personal.”

“Oh.” I began to learn surprising things about you—like your capacity for silence. Your strict standards of privacy. And the fact that you don’t actually like tuna.

“What do you think we’ll look like in heaven?” you’d asked. It was one of our rare video chats free from Wi-Fi problems, and you were in a good mood. Sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt and shorts, you waited comfortably for my answer.

I thought of the apostle Paul’s analogy to describe our resurrection bodies. He used the image of a seed planted in the ground, pointing out that the seed itself bears no resemblance to the plant that eventually grows. “I have no idea,” I confessed.

But you weren’t easily deterred; heaven was a favourite topic of yours. “Will you look the same as you do now?” you persisted.

“Maybe some of my physical traits will be the same, but I also think our bodies will be perfected.”

“I can’t imagine you more perfect than you are already,” you said.

My heart leapt, but I rolled my eyes. “I’d welcome many perfections in my future self, thank you.”

Your eyes twinkled. “Well then, if you look different, how will I recognize you?”

“There must be some essential part of us that doesn’t change, even though we’re transformed. I once heard a pastor try to explain this. He said it might be like running into a childhood friend you hadn’t seen in decades. There’d be something familiar about that person if you looked closely, and if they said, ‘Hey, remember me?’ you’d suddenly see the resemblance to that kid you knew all those years ago.”

You sat up at this. “Okay, but—the whole earth is going to be renewed, right? We’ll have access to the whole thing. If you want to go to Bora Bora, you can; if you want to go to Hawaii, it’s yours. So if we have the freedom to go anywhere, and if there’s all these transformed people walking around in their heavenly bodies . . . how will I find you?”

No one had ever asked me that before.

“Heaven is supposed to be a big feast,” I pondered. “The Wedding Supper of the Lamb. But it’s hard to imagine everyone feasting together, all those millions of people.”

“Will we be seated with our families at least?”

“I don’t know,” I began. “Jesus said there’s no marriage in heaven. Apparently, we’ll be like the angels, whatever that means. I don’t know if we’ll still have families.” I didn’t like where my own line of thinking was going.

Even over video chat, you noticed this. “Don’t worry,” you said, kissing your fingers and touching them to your phone camera, “I’ll find you.”

Over time I became acquainted with your tendency to withdraw—along with my dread whenever I sensed it coming on. You seemed preoccupied. Even when looking at me, it was as if you were straining to hear some distant sound that might become audible at any time.

I didn’t want to pry. As much as I wanted to understand, I reasoned that it could still be considered early days for us, and I wanted to give you space.

But hadn’t we bonded? Wouldn’t it make sense to confide in me? During the pandemic you’d gotten into the habit of telling me when you were leaving the house: Just headed out to the pharmacy, darling. Just want you to know because you’re my person. You were fine with sharing minutiae, but not what was on your mind.

You became a vault of classified information. I was endlessly inventive with open-ended questions, searching for the secret way in through the mystery surrounding you. Ever on guard, you answered in single words.

“Look,” I finally managed one day. “I care about you. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on; I respect your privacy. But I want to be there for you, and for that to happen you have to tell me things.”

Nothing could have prepared me for your question then. “Why do you care about me?”

Here we were, driving to a dinner date like so many times before—co-authors of elaborate inside jokes, aligned on the answers to major life questions. What was going on? You parked the car and neither of us moved.

“I think I should tell you something,” I said finally. “I didn’t plan to tell you like this. But based on this conversation, it seems important.” I paused, in search of a sign to move ahead. “I love you,” I said simply.

It took you aback.

“I don’t need you to say it back to me right now. But I need you to know.”

I don’t remember now how we finished that conversation, or which one of us finally suggested that we go inside and eat dinner. All this time later I’m still combing my memory for clues that might have revealed the path ahead of us.

Our first fight seemed to come out of nowhere. It was another video chat, and you were describing what you liked about my hair. I remember thinking that you seemed yourself for the first time in a long while. Soon, though, your conversation took a different tack—focusing on my hairdresser, and the technique she used to achieve a certain look. “How much does that cost?” you asked casually.

My stomach churned. We’d spoken about money before—we both knew that we had different approaches to spending. We’d agreed that before any serious decisions about the future were made, we would need to agree on a financial strategy, and promise to stick with it. I was ready for that.

Now, I took a deep breath and answered you truthfully. I could see the light leave your eyes: it was like watching you retreat into yourself. After a moment or two of awkward silence, you moved to end the conversation. “Well, I’ll let you go,” you said. Caught off guard, I fumbled an acceptable goodnight and ended the video call.

Two minutes later, I called you back.

“I’m not okay with how that conversation ended. You’re clearly upset about what I spent, even though that was before I even met you.”

“Money isn’t the issue. That’s the least of my worries.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m a smart girl,” I said. “Try me.”

“Look, I just want to sweep it under the rug, because I know there’s no point in discussing it.”

“But there IS a point! If something’s bothering you, I need to know. We can’t move forward if we don’t communicate.”

“I’m going to have a rough night now,” you said. “I can feel it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that; I am. I don’t want you to lose sleep or feel upset. But for this to work, you need to tell me what’s happening. If you can’t tell me today, then figure out when you can tell me. I need to know when it’s going to happen.”

Eventually, you did tell me. You came over, sat down and explained that anxiety had taken over your life.

“It’s a constant weight. It hits me as soon as I open my eyes in the morning. Sometimes I can barely get out of bed.” It made you doubt everything you knew and hoped for. “I second-guess everything.”

I asked you about every coping strategy I could think of. I could hear in your voice that you were willing yourself to stay patient with me.

“It’s been like this for years, long before I met you. Sometimes it’s better, sometimes it’s worse, but it never goes away.” You’d researched the problem intently; you’d seen specialists, you’d taken medication. “Nothing helps.”

When I asked what you needed, you said that most of the time you just wanted to be alone. I wrestled with this, feeling instinctively that isolation couldn’t possibly be the answer. But I also wanted to care for you in ways that were meaningful to you. Alone time was something I could give.

“Okay,” I said. We agreed that for at least one day a week, there would be no expectation for you to contact me. I had a strange sensation of letting out more rope, when all I wanted to do was pull you closer. The weeks were long and endlessly the same. I missed you and prayed for your healing.

One gorgeous summer afternoon I threw open the door to let you into the apartment. I’d been looking forward to your visit all week, cleaning every surface and opening every window to the breeze. I bought ingredients for us to cook together. I painted my toenails.

“What do you want to do?” I asked. “We could go for a walk, hang out in the park, go get ice cream . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said. We sat down on the couch.

I asked about your parents, and what you’d done on your days off. When I ran out of questions about how you fixed the food processor, we lapsed into silence. I waited. Every now and then you’d remember I was there, look over and squeeze my knee, then look away again.

“Is the new medication helping?” I asked.

“No.”

After another long silence, you spoke again. “I don’t want to drag you down with me. It’s not fair to you.” This comment may have been the key that unlocked my particular brand of stubbornness.

“I want to walk through this with you, if you’ll let me,” I said quietly. “I can see who you’ll become on the other side of this, and I want to be there when it happens.”

After what felt like an eternity, you nodded.

I leaned into you, resting my head on your chest. I listened to your heartbeat as the curtains billowed in the breeze. “You and me. We’re in this together, babe,” I whispered.

Very slowly, you showed signs of rallying. At first, it was such a subtle change that I dismissed it as a fluke: increased eye contact one day. A few days later, a smile. Gradually you showed more interest in conversation. Often you still needed time to yourself, but how could I begrudge you that?

One night I was working on a deadline. You texted to tell me that you’d left something on my doorstep; I opened the front door to find dark chocolate and a red rose. I called you instantly, but by that time you were already several blocks away.

“Come back!” I exclaimed.

“No, no, I don’t want to bug you. I know you’re working.” I sighed and shut the door. The chocolate and rose sat on my desk, little ambassadors of your goodwill.

You began working with a therapist. “He gets me,” you said. I was thrilled; also irrationally jealous. But I figured that as long as you were talking to someone, that was progress.

In rare moments of candour, you showed that you longed for a different way of life. One time after we listened to a sermon together you turned to me and said, “Imagine if we really lived like this was the truth? If we truly believed it and didn’t doubt, we’d never have to worry about anything. Imagine the freedom . . . ?” I clung to those moments. They were unquestionably a picture of where you were headed.

I can’t pinpoint when things devolved again. I suppose we adapted to our worsening conditions one day at a time. You developed dark circles under your eyes. I lost weight.

Tense conversations became more frequent; I saw you less often. The things that had drawn me to you—your listening, curiosity, investment—seemed to go into hiding one by one. That familiar sense of dread set up camp around me.

One day on the phone, the most benign thing set you off: “We’re just so different!” you exclaimed in frustration. I became aware of a painful burning in my stomach.

“When you talk about differences,” I said slowly, “it feels like you mean deficiencies.” You didn’t answer that.

“I’ve tried everything I can think of,” you said instead. It reminded me of a comment you’d made months earlier, when considering ways to cope with your struggles. “What’s the point? I know myself. I know it won’t work.”

Now one baffling reality emerged. “It sounds like it’s over,” I said.

There was a pause. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard,” you replied. I waited for you to continue, until I realized you’d said all you were going to say.

“No,” I agreed. I sat in silence, thinking nothing and feeling nothing except the acid in my stomach. Several lifetimes seemed to pass as I breathed in and out.

“Okay,” I said finally, letting go of the rope. And that was the beginning of life without you.

Even as I hung up the phone, I expected you to call back: the next day, the next week, after a month, by Christmas. It was both inevitable and a total shock that you never did. I spent a long time trying to untangle what I didn’t understand. I’ve only recently given up on that.

But I know what I saw in my mind’s eye, all those months ago—I can see it still. I see a version of you who is assured that all is well. I see someone equipped for the chaos of life. I see someone who is free.

And I don’t think I’m wrong about that. We’re told that even our wildest imaginations can’t conceive of what God has in store for us. So if I can imagine a healthy version of you, and if Christ has promised us life to the full, then how could I be wrong about what I saw? It’s just a matter of time.

Hope is my hypothesis, which of course I cannot prove. It’s easy for me to believe it for you; it takes all my energy to believe it for me. Here in the soup of my own chrysalis, I long to see who we’ll be farther along—once this transformation is done. But for now, almost everything is obscured as I swim in the dissolved substance of who I used to be. Dreaming of a miracle, inside a miracle.

Text: Jen McNaughton

Art: Katrina Togeretz