Fighting Bees

“When I hear a man preach, I like to see him act as if he were fighting bees.” – Abraham Lincoln

“I’m thinking about raising honey bees.”

Airing a statement like that in front of my teenage sons is like rolling out a field of clover to the hive after a long winter. The buzzing begins immediately.

“Don’t you have to actually like being around bees to do that?”

I feel the sting of my youngest son’s unbelief. It is no secret that a bee in my personal space is a sure catalyst for some mad dashing and theatrical vocalizing. I tell him it is all about overcoming my fears (while silently registering the added benefit of not reacting like a nutcase).

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid of bees if someone (implying his older brother) hadn’t thrown me in a nest when I was in 6th grade!”

With this subtle adjustment, the direction of their flight changes and they are off to fields of rambunctious forget-me-nots… those harrowing accounts of near death experiences and previous conquests that become legend amongst brothers. This fragrant meadow expands with each new visit and I am left feeling a bit like Horton in peril of losing his Whos in all that fluff. Eventually though, their uncanny navigation skills bring them back to the original issue at hand.

“I’d be so afraid that I’d get Africanized bees!” the older brother rants. “They are so crazy.”

Suddenly, I have a clear recollection of a documentary on killer bees that I saw as a child. An awareness as to the source of my phobia begins to emerge.

“They aren’t in Michigan!” the youngest challenges.

“They are in the United States! How do you know they won’t come to Michigan?”

The youngest hovers, not totally sure that he wants to sink his mandibles into this juicy new detail.

“What? You can’t just run away?”

“No - they just decide they don’t like you, attack and sting until you are dead!”

It takes only a split second, but the youngest strikes with lightning-like precision.

“Well, I wouldn’t be afraid. I’d just punch them… like this!” and with dramatic flair he swings his fist into the air...

just as a real-live bee flies through his personal space...

in the middle of our kitchen.

Pause.

“Like that!”

We all explode into laughter.

(There is a moral to this story that I have in mind. Any guesses? HINT: The moral of this story (like the title) is taken from a quote by another previous president.)

His and Hers

There are two chairs by the side of the road. Abandoned partners. His and Hers.

This is a scene right out of Pixar’s animated movie UP, only the chairs have been lifted from Paradise Falls and set down here at the edge of 5 Mile Road. I am looking for balloons caught in the trees – colorful gumballs disappearing into the stratosphere, a chubby Wilderness Explorer named Russell hiding beneath the porch or a rare bird named Kevin following me.

This lonely upholstered pair is “For Sale” and I wonder what memories come with them. Did they seat a couple who dreamed of going places never realized? Or, are the chairs extra baggage – being sold to fund the next big adventure. Maybe this is about survival in these poor economic times. Or perhaps, they just got old. (The chairs that is.)

We have an empty nest facing us in this next month or so and I wonder about the chairs in our home. They have wide, soft memories. They have seated us well in this great adventure. We could be like Carl, the balloon salesman in the film. It could take a court order and the lift of 10,000 helium balloons to get us off our behinds.

Or… we could avoid all the fuss of talking Dobermans in biplanes (sorry, you’ll have to see the movie for that). We could make a choice now to set those chairs purposefully… atop our own Paradise Falls… to serve as our Ebenezer as we move on to the next leg in this big adventure.

“The word "Ebenezer" comes from Hebrew and is actually two words pronounced together: Even Haazer. Written in Hebrew it looks like this:

It is usually transliterated as a proper name by dropping the definite article (Ha) from the Hebrew word for "help" (Ezer) and putting it together with the Hebrew word for "stone" (Even) to create: "Ebenezer." The etymological roots of the word, thus defined, should demonstrate that an "Ebenezer" is, literally, a "Stone of Help."

Literally speaking, an Ebenezer is a "stone of help," or a reminder of God’s Real, Holy Presence and Divine aid. Spiritually and theologically speaking, an Ebenezer can be nearly anything that reminds us of God’s presence and help…” - Dr. Gregory S. Neal

Our Night Sky

“The reason why the universe is eternal is that it does not live for itself; it gives life to others as it transforms”
- Lao Tzu

This past week we celebrated our son’s graduation from high school with an open house gala. I spent hours gathering photos for the memory boards. As I charted his life thus far in images, certain aspects of his personality gravitated toward each other and shone like bright constellations. Here was Hercules, strong-willed and determined, from scaling fences at age two to winning the “Iron Man” award at age seventeen. There the Chamaeleon - from pirate to cowgirl to goodwill hunter to prom king – creative and adaptable.

I did not get a chance to leisurely observe the completed boards until this week. And, like gazing up at the Milky Way on a clear night, I was overcome. This galaxy known as 'son' pulses like a quasar and what a mystery and privilege it is to be considered Co-creator.

Shoes

I’ve come into the house momentarily blind from running in the blazing sun. I am quick to kick these sweaty shoes into a dark rectangle otherwise known as the hall closet. The Asics are still airborne when I realize I have to go back outside and fill the bird feeders. Feeling around with feet only, I slip on a pair of my clogs and head out the door.

Back in the light of day, I am startled to find very masculine dress shoes awkwardly clinging to my feminine feet. (I thought they felt a little loose!)

I’m wearing someone else’s shoes and wonder if I would have stepped into them as quickly and genuinely with open eyes.

Bread and Wine

I am in town and hungry. Though the dulling edge of spring air slices its way through layers of sunlight, I am not about to miss this opportunity for a helping no matter how poorly served. In fact, I’ll take 2nds... and maybe 3rds, thank you very much!

That is how I find myself here, at an outdoor table by the river. That I am the only one on the patio is more perplexing. Has the absence of sun all these long winter months made for a slow thawing of the heart? I can relate, but am quick to forgive on account of the fact that I don’t want to miss a day of it. I think the people inside are missing out.

“Are you O.K. way over here on your own?”

This question from the server is innocent enough, but unsheathes a double-edged sword. Perhaps I am missing out as well.

She sets the food in front of me. My portion of sunlight arrives, illuminating the bread and wine.

“… the holy meal, epitomized in the bread and wine shared by Abraham and Melchizedek… this primal meal wasn’t intended as an expression of exclusion… It was a meal of peace and fellowship, bringing together two different people with their different religious traditions. The sacred meal in this light becomes a celebration of hospitality, of community, of inclusion, and of reconciliation.”
- Finding Our Way Again, Brian McLaren

New Life

We have a cardinal couple nesting in our yard this spring. The cedar tree has come alive with the sweet chirping of hatchlings. We've watched mom and dad dart to and fro gathering food, defending the nest and tending their young.

This evening, I went out to prop up an unruly Wisteria and came face to face with this little one perched in the tangle of vines, appearing just as unruly and bold. He's caught in the awkward “in-between” - that of home within reach and moving on into the wide, wild world. So familiar, so like a young man I know.

Henry and the Poison Puddle

“Small relics of the mouldering mass were left,
at once of substance as of form bereft;
dissolved the whole in liquid poison ran,
and to a nauseous pool shrunk the man.”
Dante’s ‘Divine Comedy’ as translated by Henry (Wadsworth Longfellow)

photo by Christy Berghoef

Henry introduced me to the poison puddle. I had barely arrived at Bryan and Christy’s before his small hand gently but firmly grasped mine, guiding me to the back porch amid emphatic exclamations of “I have to SHOW you something!” There was no question that Henry's brother Winston, like Aaron to Moses of old, would accompany his brother in case he suddenly was at a loss for words. Somehow I doubted that would happen, assured that between the two of them I would get a complete and thorough introduction to the ‘SOMETHING’.

I waited patiently while the brothers donned the appropriate garments for the ritual of entering the sacred tent of Northern Michigan drizzle; first zipping then buckling up their rain slickers and smartly sliding small feet into rubber clogs to ground their tiny bodies to the earth in the event of a lightning strike. I felt self-consciously under dressed and unprepared as I pulled the hood of my wool sweater over my head and slogged out into this mystery in leather sandals. Henry, however, kept my hand firmly in his and guided me along the path, through the garage and into the drive in the back of the house.

There it was. The poison puddle.

We all squatted down, heads together in fascination at the evil slick of silver-gray that ominously snaked its way through the water.

“It’s oil! It’s poison!! Don’t TOUCH it!!!”

A command that both threatens and invites.

We looked long and hard. We considered it carefully. And we all agreed. We would avoid that puddle.

photo by Christy Berghoef

With the understanding of that boundary out of the way, we were free to explore the alleyway. I wisely took my sandals off and rolled up my pant legs in anticipation of some serious puddle jumping. We spent the next ten minutes relishing the gift of rain and praising its visceral qualities with our feet.

While the boys were still caught up in the moment, I apologized that my fun had to end and turned back to the garage. I had gone no more than 5 feet when the laughter stopped and the panic-stricken voice of Henry (followed by Winston’s) gave me quite a start!

“ANGELA! THE POISON!! STOP!!!”

There I was, about to put my bare foot right IN the poison puddle and just as suddenly, Henry was at my side – his hand in mine again.

Disaster averted.

Great relief flooded us all and we turned back to the house together.

I’ve been thinking about that puddle. There is something both terrible and fascinating about it. I think Henry and Winston get this and that is why they are wise to go out in pairs and not leave each other alone. I think they are wise because inside us all is the desire to test that poison puddle. Maybe it is on a day when the sun starts to shine again and that icy gray slick pulses like a rainbow. Maybe it is inadvertent – we are just going along unaware and step directly into it.

That’s why we need our Henrys and Winstons. We need to stick together. We need to stare in fascination and horror into the poison puddle together, to know it through and through so that we become convinced of its lethal dose on sight alone. It is this awareness that then provokes us to virtually throw ourselves in the path of a brother or sister who is about to take the plunge.

As a final note, I went out running today. It’s still drizzling. There are still puddles. This became painfully evident as I was rudely baptized with mud by a passing car. Just as I was about to curse the driver, I thought of Henry and the poison puddle. Maybe this dousing wasn’t malicious. Maybe people are mostly driving through life with no awareness of the puddles around them. Maybe they are waiting for their Henry… to point them out… to step in their place… and then… to lovingly take them by the hand and guide them home.

(Photos courtesy of Christy Berghoef. Visit her site for photo cards and much more... www.rawinspiration.etsy.com)