There is a factory out in my garden—hundreds of worker bees busy on the job, pollinating the blackberry bushes. I stop pruning the wisteria that has overgrown the fence and listen to their humming. The air is electric with it! I think of the bee, so intent on being a bee, that it knows of nothing else—its purpose etched in its DNA.
Later, I relax on the porch swing with a magazine, thumbing through the glossy pages. Apparently, I need longer lashes, thinner thighs, whiter teeth, and less wrinkles. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed with how I don’t measure up, but then I think of the bees, and I know, in the deepest recesses of my heart, that God doesn’t care about my outside. He cares about what’s inside, and if like the bees, I’m focused on the purpose for which He created me.
I close the magazine and wander back out into my garden, back out to where I can remember my true self.