A New Box of Bees: My Close Encounter

My son is a novice beekeeper. He trained for several months under a mentor. Then in May, he purchased his first box of bees, which has already grown into three boxes of bees, two in the process of raising their own queens. Justin and his family were able to taste the honeycomb and the nectar within just a few weeks of receiving their hive. This past weekend, my granddaughter proudly presented me with a jar of honey she and my son collected. Locally grown has taken on a whole new meaning: honey from hives thriving in my son’s backyard.

Last month, my son and granddaughter took me to meet the bees for the first time. I had already seen pictures of my three-year-old grandson letting bees walk on his hand. My son had talked of petting them and assured me the bees had to be seriously provoked to sting. After all, bees want to make honey. If they sting someone, they die. Armed with this knowledge and led by my son, I approached the hives with what felt like a surprising amount of confidence and trust. I felt eager, not afraid. I wanted to meet my son’s bees.

At first, though, I didn’t see any bees, only their boxes. My son uncovered a window on the side of one box to reveal several bees restoring a section of honeycomb my son’s family had harvested and eaten. I looked up and noticed bees hovering over a nearby patch of overgrown grass and wildflowers. Then I realized they were also hovering around my son who was holding his hand out, palm up, at the base of the hive entrance to see if a bee would land. My granddaughter stood quietly beside him, her eyes shining, her whole self bouncing just the littlest bit on her toes.

I felt the slightest bump against my arm, jumped, brushed the air above that arm with my opposite hand, then froze, remembering that sudden motion might provoke. The bees were all around me, tiny fairies in a wooded wonderland, floating on currents of air. In that moment surreal, I am sure my eyes were sparkling like my granddaughter’s. How could they not have been? I may even have bounced just the littlest bit up on my toes as well.

 My son said the bees might land on my back, arms, or head and walk around. I wasn’t thrilled by that idea, but I wasn’t afraid either. I thought of a contrasting experience during my youth group’s mission trip to an orphanage on a reservation in Arizona when I was sixteen. I remember standing by a picnic table in a clearing surrounded by scraggly trees. The children were teaching me and my friends how to make flat bread. As I tossed the ball of dough from one hand to another, I overheard someone behind me whisper to another that a bee was walking on my back. I flinched; it stung. A sneak attack, it seemed to me. Unjustified. Unfair. That bee, at least, was not trustworthy.

Yet these many years later, I believed that my son knew his bees, knew what he was doing, and knew how to keep me safe. I trusted he wouldn’t lead me or my grandchildren into danger. I followed his instructions as he introduced me to his bees. As a result, I experienced those creatures with wonder, delight, and awe.

What a difference it makes to know the beekeeper who knows his bees, to trust his words and follow his instructions, to discover sweet goodness in a surprising place.

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Photo by Fabian Kleiser on Unsplash