“I don’t want to write about the bumblebee,” I told David. “It sounds a little far-fetched and slightly ridiculous. Besides, the Chicken Soup editors note that they get a lot of stories about butterflies, rainbows and birds, and only a few of that type will be featured.”
“So then, don’t write about the bumblebee,” was David’s simple answer.
And I didn’t. In response to a recent call for submissions for stories on the subject of messages from Heaven I worked on a different essay for the past ten days. I am always pleased to finalize something I am writing. After several re-writes and edits, I submitted my completed essay online on Sunday morning.
Still that bumblebee story nagged at me. As I’ve mentioned on my blog before, not only had my mother had a bumblebee land on her hand when she was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital when my father was injured, but my family had seen a bumblebee two days in a row at her house while she lay dying. In November. There was no denying the frequent appearances of bumblebees in my life since then. On her birthday, my daughter Elizabeth was greeted by a big fat bumblebee on her step when she was headed to the hospital with Jacob for chemotherapy. On the day of my last garage sale, three bumblebees appeared.
Feathers and coins have traditionally been viewed as signs from beyond. But the lowly and somewhat feared bumblebee?
I went into the kitchen where David sat at the table and informed him I’d finally submitted the essay he’d seen me working on.
“Good for you,” came the response.
“But I can’t help but wonder if I should have written about the bumblebee?” I explained why I hadn’t; they would only accept a few of that type of essay, and it sounded kind of nutty. Even while I talked, it sounded like I was trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing.
“You can write another one,” my wise husband countered, but I shrugged off that idea. I wanted to get back to working on my book and I’d never sent two submissions for one title before.
“Then don’t worry about it,” David soothed me,”You don’t need to write about bees.” I relaxed a little and went back to my desk. As my fingers hit the keyboard I heard an unmistakable buzzing near my right ear. I glanced down at my shoulder, and froze. A bumblebee was sitting there. Remembering how I’d regretted squashing the bumblebee I’d seen in my mother’s kitchen, I hurried to the front door and calmly, but quickly, removed my black sweatshirt, dropping it to the floor of the porch.
“What’s wrong? You rushed out of the house so fast,” David’s voice came from behind me.
I pointed at the fallen sweatshirt. “There was a bumblebee on my shoulder.”
“Yeah, right,” came his slightly amused reply.
“Really,” I said, carefully lifting the sweatshirt up from the floor.
David’s eyes widened at the sight of the bee that was still attached. He looked from the bumblebee to me, then back to the bumblebee.
I just shook my head in disbelief.
“I guess you have to write about the bumblebee, after all.”
I wrote the rough draft this afternoon.