The Blogs: Never Random: When Hashem Sends Love

What it means when butterflies keep showing up

It started with one butterfly. Then another. And then, over time, they became something I could no longer ignore.

I didn’t go looking for signs.

They found me.

The first time I remember noticing them was long after my brother passed away.

By then, I had already been through months in the hospital, followed by a long and difficult recovery in rehab. I wasn’t walking yet — I had left with a wheelchair, then slowly began using a walker, and eventually a cane.

It took time before I could walk on my own again.

And it was only later — when I finally did — that I began to notice them.

I was walking, still trying to understand how life could continue when something so foundational had been taken from it.

And then, almost gently, there it was — a white butterfly crossing my path.

Then another.

Not moths. Butterflies. Light, deliberate, almost… intentional.

At first, I didn’t let myself read into it. Grief has a way of narrowing everything — what you see, what you feel, what you’re willing to believe. But they kept appearing. Quietly. Consistently. Often when I needed something I couldn’t quite name.

Over time, I began to understand — this wasn’t random.

And not just in the big moments.

They would meet me in the in-between spaces too — on my walks, on my way to shul, in the simple rhythm of everyday life. Moments that might have otherwise passed unnoticed suddenly felt… accompanied.

And not just in one place.

Anywhere in the world I was, they would appear. In Israel. In Morocco. In France. In Spain. In New York. In Montréal. Different landscapes, different chapters — and yet, the same quiet presence crossing my path.

In Morocco, at the kever of Solika – a place I once visited with my father – I experienced something I still struggle to put into words. A wall of small butterflies, almost glittering in the sunlight, moving together in a way that felt alive, luminous.

What a sight.

When my mother passed away, I began noticing two butterflies.

Not always together, not always at the same time — but present. As if something had shifted. As if the shape of my absence had changed.

And then, after my father passed, there was a moment I will never forget.

I was standing in front of my parents’ home — the place that once held so much life. So many Shabbats. Just the four of us. The table set, the rhythm of those nights, the laughter, the conversations, the feeling that everything was whole.

And there they were.

Three butterflies.

Together.

Circling me.

Not chaotic. Not fleeting. Just… present.

And something in me softened.

Because it didn’t feel random.

It felt like presence.

Like a quiet reminder:

We’re here.

We’re with you.

We never really left.

There were even moments where that presence felt like guidance.

Once, in Israel, I was waiting for a bus with my suitcase. The first bus stopped but told me it was full. The second passed me by without stopping.

I stayed.

Calm. Present. Just waiting.

The third bus arrived.

It stopped.

And in that exact moment, as I lifted my suitcase into the trunk, a butterfly crossed my line of sight.

So simple. So precise.

And something in me settled.

This is the one.

And then there are moments that feel almost too precise to ignore.

Recently, I left a shiur — one centered on yissurim, on life’s challenges, both big and small — and was trying to find my way to the bus stop. The map led me off the street and onto a walking path I wasn’t sure about.

I followed it anyway.

And it led me to the most stunning view of Jerusalem.

That’s when I saw it.

A butterfly.

It circled near me, light and gentle.

And without thinking, I whispered,

Who’s coming to see me right now?

Then I smiled and said,

Is there another one? I want another one.

And then… there was.

A second butterfly.

The two of them fluttering together, right in front of me.

And I felt it instantly.

My mom.

My dad.

Tears filled my eyes before I could even process it.

As I kept walking, I quietly asked,

Are you coming too?

My brother.

And then—

From a different direction, crossing directly into my path—

A third butterfly.

And I just stood there.

Overwhelmed.

Because somehow, I had taken a path I wasn’t even sure about… after learning about life’s challenges… and it led me exactly where I needed to be.

Not coincidental.

Intentional.

A thank you, Hashem moment.

After getting on the bus and continuing my day, I got off at my stop and sat down on a bench, calling a friend. As I was telling her everything — the path, the butterflies, the feeling — another butterfly came into view.

Right in that moment.

I couldn’t help but smile.

Later, I went to get a coffee and sat for a bit, watching people come and go, letting everything settle.

Then I walked back to the bus stop, sat down to wait—

And another butterfly flew by me.

As if to say:

I’m still here.

I got on the bus again, made my way home, and as I walked toward my building, I ran into a friend. We spoke for a few minutes — just a simple, ordinary moment.

Then I continued on my way.

There’s a small path I take that leads through a quiet park in the courtyard of my building — a place I’ve walked through countless times.

And just as I was about to enter—

Another white butterfly passed right by me.

And I paused.

Because by then, it didn’t feel like something that came and went.

It felt like something that stayed with me — all the way home.

And as I keep thinking about all of this, I find myself returning to something I’ve always known — something that always rang true for me.

During shiva, in Sephardi tradition, we say: Min HaShamayim Tenuchamu — may you be comforted from Heaven.

It’s a phrase I’ve, unfortunately, heard many times in my life.

But today, I feel like I understand it differently.

More deeply.

Because to me, the butterflies have come to embody that idea in the most real and tangible way.

They feel like comfort sent from above.

A kind of quiet reassurance from Hashem — the kind that meets you exactly where you are, especially in those moments when grief hits without warning, when the absence feels overwhelming, when you miss someone so much it almost feels unbearable.

And somehow, in those moments, something small appears.

A butterfly.

A presence.

And it doesn’t take the pain away.

But it softens it.

It reminds me that I’m still connected.

That love doesn’t disappear.

That I’m being cared for, even in the middle of loss.

That this is how Hashem looks after His children — by giving us exactly what we need to keep going, to keep feeling, to keep holding on.

And for me, that comfort has taken the form of wings.

And maybe that’s what butterflies are.

Not answers.