Janet Benlien Reeves

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 confidenc...

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” –Isaiah 41:10, NIV This past weekend, we took our grandchildren and their daddy to the elementary school playground behind our house. The grands believe we own the playground, so a visit to our home is not complete without playground free play. Each of our grandkids has a different favorite. Our granddaughter likes to pretend the ground is lava. She and her aunt take turns pretending to be the lava monster and chasing each other all over the play set. Our oldest grandson loves pretending he’s a Ninja Warrior and swinging from bar to bar or ring to ring. Not quite four, our youngest grandson usually sticks to the slide. He climbs to the top, grabs the bar situated just above the launch pad, and dangles for a moment, swinging his feet out over the slide and back to the platform. He’s growing bigger, but t...

I don’t want to worry anymore. Don’t want to fear the phone call, the bill, arriving unexpected by mail, the month left at the end of the money, the unseen predator, the crisis not mine, but mine to fix or forever wonder if my two mites could have made the difference after all, at last, the natural disaster, the unnatural disaster caused by consequences unintended, unforeseen. I don’t want to worry about any thing, any more. And so, I give all of this worry unworthy to You Who sees only and all real threats to me coming, no surprise, no problem, only gracious provision preprepared . * * * I wrote this post for the Five-Minute Friday Link-Up. Click  here  to read other writers' posts on today's prompt: anymore . Photo by Artem Kovalev on Unsplash

It’s a well-known fact that light from stars can take tens, hundreds, and even thousands of years to reach Earth, depending on how far away the star is from Earth. By the time we earthlings see the light of a star, that star may be long dead. The light we see comes to us as a message from the distant past. In their book, Tenth Stone , Bodie and Brock Thoene (p. 223) use this truth as a metaphor: To someone yet unborn you are a distant star. What good you do now may shine forth, yet it may not be seen or received by anyone during your lifetime. But then your act of kindness will someday change the destiny of someone far in the future. Just think, our actions today could possibly affect the lives of people who are not yet born, people who may not be born for decades or even centuries. We can see the proof of this through the work of people who lived before us. I doubt Peter, Paul, or James ever imagined that someone two thousand years in the future would be drinking coffee in front...

It’s 4:45 a.m. and the sky is a ribbon of flame burning horizontally—red, orange, yellow—behind the mountain silhouettes and topped by a solid grey block of not-yet-morning. Its boldness pulls my attention from my Bible. I sip my first cup of coffee and embrace the invitation to simply sit and watch. There was a time when I would have said God must have been feeling especially artistic on such a morning, painting yet another brilliant sunrise for early risers like me to see. But now I know better. God doesn’t paint the sunrise anew every morning for me or for you or for anyone else. Long ago, he created the heavens to produce a unique display of beauty every morning for his own pleasure. The beauty honors him, the Creator, by being what God created it to be. The skies only do what God created them to do. Now that God has created me and you and everyone else currently living, he invites us to enjoy the show with him. In fact, those of us who don’t rise early can catch the performanc...

I’ve silently participated in Writer’s Digest ’s poem-a-day challenges since November 2022. The magazine's online version holds these challenges twice a year, in April and November. Depending on life circumstances, I have approached these challenges either with diligence to write every day or hit or miss, doing my best. But this April, I decided to participate publicly for the first time. Each day, I posted my prompted poem in the comments on  Writer’s Digest ’s website and on my Facebook page . I quickly discovered that doing this dramatically changed the experience. First and most obviously, I found myself interacting with people. Other participants made comments and suggestions about my work; they cheered me on. I did the same for them, though I did more “liking” than commenting. Overall, the environment among participants was encouraging and celebratory. It was fun. Second, I found myself challenged to produce final drafts. In silent seasons, I could challenge myself t...

Rainy Day I stretch, toss Panda gently onto the wet grass, duck back under the eaves hoping my pup will do her business, meaning business, and come right back to me, so we can retreat to dry inside. Panda Girl doesn’t get it. Rather, she prances like the princess she is all the way across the yard, high-born head and flag tail regal both held high. She turns as if to summon me, What are you waiting for? “Panda, come,” I command. She tilts her head. No. You come, her stance manifests. She stays, tail wagging, sky leaking moisture all over her seven-pound self. Yesterday’s grass clippings cling to her black and white fur with leaves and other bits of yard debris. I sigh, start out with shoulders scrunched, head bowed to let my back take the brunt of today’s assault on earth. Panda sees and circles joyful, plants feet, barks, See! I told you! The water’s fine. I lift head, straighten shoulders, relax, and walk in the wonder: my rain-dancing dog’s right. * * * Photo by A A on Unsplash