As I reached into the mailbox, a wasp stung me. Frightened of bees as a child, I’ve never liked surprises that sting. I vaguely remember my childhood bedroom in Pennsylvania, in our new home designed by my father. I have a vivid memory of spending hours and hours, behind my closed door, drawing little black and yellow bee families on pieces of paper. Some were single bees; others pushed strollers with baby bees. I cut them out and taped them all over my furniture and walls as high as I could reach. I remember the surprised look on my mother’s face when she opened the door and saw my artwork. She went to get Dad, and they decided to let me keep the bees on display. Even though the tape could have damaged the furniture and walls, they didn’t have the heart to ask me to remove my first art installation.
Today, in celebration of National Honey Month, I enjoyed lemon ginger tea with local honey. I love bees and I love honey, but I don’t feel called to the apiary. I appreciate beekeepers, and I’m thankful for those who harvest this beautiful, sweet, golden liquid.
How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth! –Psalm 119:103
Bread for the Journey 