Busy Bee

Bees- what I noticed when I stood taking pictures of butterflies the other day 

was the buzz of bees. 

The bees were just as prevalent in the clover as the butterflies, 

they were simply smaller, less colorful, and noisier. 

Yesterday I took a few minutes, after collecting eggs, 

to crouch at the edge of the hay and watch the bees. 

Most of the bees I saw were bumble bees and carpenter bees.
They frantically flew from flower to flower, 

raking through each head of blossoms, 

their legs heavy with pollen, 

their wings a blur.

Today I identify with the bees. 

I still feel fragile and vulnerable like the butterflies. 

I still think life is a precious and beautiful struggle, 

but I have been forced to continue on with life.
I have been busy. 

It's both good and sad at the same time. 

On the one hand I feel

 as though my little world and the way I function

 should reflect how profoundly my life has been forever changed 

by my mom's sudden absence from it. 

Shouldn't something about how I go about my daily life be altered forever? 

On the other hand, 

I would probably wallow in sadness, introspection, and feelings of futility 

if I was left to brood on the strange and scattered thoughts 

that assail me in the tired moments of stillness that I steal. 

Providence has seen fit to throw a bunch of "hot coals" in my lap lately, 

and so I juggle them, 

my life a busy blur of worry, whining children, and waiting tasks. 

Just as the worker bees frantically labor
to gather the nectar before the blossoms fade, 

I too am trying to do my job, 

to scrape together what my family needs 

in order to make something sweet
that will get us through the tough days ahead.

Fragile and Beautiful

Ever since we put up our first cutting of hay, the purple clover have been growing vigorously and blooming plentifully. Every day when I walk out to collect eggs, I have noticed the many butterflies flitting from flower to flower. However, I didn't stop to admire their splendor until today. 

I've been busy lately, and distracted. There's too much to mention in that area, but I will say that it's been less than a week since my mother's funeral. So, today, in the week of my birthday, amid my sorrow and confusion of heart, I made time. I took 15 minutes to watch them. I scattered the scratch for the chickens, collected the eggs, and stood at the board fence with my camera in hand.

I saw five different kinds of butterflies. Most of them were Eastern Tiger Swallowtails. Some of them were Eastern Black Swallowtails. I also saw some Great Spangled Fritillary Butterflies, Red Admiral Butterflies, and Checkered White Butterflies. 

There were so many butterflies.

The upper hay field was in constant motion.  The butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. They spiraled around each other in groups. I began snapping pictures to the drone of bees as I stood sweating on this day with heat index warnings.

Soon my 7 year old was at my side. Instead of being awed by the beauty and fragility of the butterflies, instead of contemplating the mysteriousness of life, the frail grace of the frantic flapping, he summed it up as only a little boy could. "It looks like they are fighting," he state matter of factly, pointing to the butterflies rising in spirals around each other.

At first I chuckled. "You think so?" I asked rhetorically,

but then it hit me. "Yes," I thought, "they are fighting. Like all of us, they are persevering. With God's grace, they will persist. And our lives are just as vulnerable, fragile, and beautiful."