The Last Few Bees (the one-hundred-thousandth snow day)

In the morning, after the twins chug their milk and the heavy wet diapers of the night before are deposited in the already overflowing trash, I sit in the corner of the couch with Isaiah to look at a book.  We flip through the pages of a National Geographic pointing out choo-choos,  ho-hees and brooommmm-vrmmms. 

Just about the time he decides it’s safe to sink from his perch on the far edge of one knee into the middle of my lap, Levi climbs up, shouting in his little mega-phone voice.  Then the competition begins, with shouts and gestures, to see who will be first to name and claim the trains and horses, houses and cars on each and every page.

Their older brother appears on the stairs, sniffly and sleepy.  He bursts into tears after blowing his nose because he doesn’t want to be sick and I carry him off to the living room where he too wants to look at a book.  The twins, dispersed by the sudden appearance of their crying brother, now flock back, climbing on. 
Then, in that moment, I am done, already, surrounded and sinking among a swarming mass of need and desire.   
I saw a picture recently of the man who holds the world record for wearing the most bees at once and I feel like I imagine that man must feel as they’re putting on the last few bees - frozen, pushing down the panic, hoping to make it through until they can get. them. off.  

The pictures capture the way a moment feels sometimes, stretched wide and deep.  The bees gathered clinging, swarming for the time it took to capture them on film and then, I imagine, they were gone.  Time paused, like a butterfly alighting on a flower, long enough for the man to practice some deep breathing, long enough to feel the full weight of that particular moment.    

It's so much the same with these little bees of mine who climb and cling just long enough for the stress to rise, long enough for me to practice some deep breathing before they too are on their way - off and running, climbing, soaring.  So I take picture after picture, I inhale and exhale and each moment opens, one-by-one.  

I surrender to what is right here, right now on what feels like the one-hundred-thousandth snow day because this moment too will pass as each one before and after does until all that remains is the memory of this humming hive.   

This post is linked with Playdates With God


  1. Oh Kelly ... you've captured those hours, those days, that season. May there be sweet honey and sparkles of joy interlaced in there for you today ...


  2. So glad you "surrendered to what is right here, right now," because I who have only the memory of such burdens in the bound-in days, was laughing with delight at your "choo-choos, ho-hees and brooommmm-vrmmms," and chuckling later at your pile of "bees." The memory is sweet, though the burden sometimes weighed hard at the time.
    Blessings to you this snow day.

    1. Yes, heavy AND sweet, maybe more like molasses than honey! Thanks for stopping by, Sylvia.

  3. So much that I resonate with here that's playing out in my life right now, Kelly. I also fondly remember - as my boys are either in college or about to be, that "swarmed" feeling--especially on the umpteenth snow day (which it seems is true here in my neck of the woods too). Praying that you rest in the overwhelming grace of God.

  4. It is true that a picture can tell a thousand words and these illustrate your words perfectly :). It's funny, sometimes it still feels this way, even with teenagers. So many things that only mom can handle. I guess that is a blessing that I should tuck in my pocket for today, hmmm?