Out of all my quirks my poor husband has had to endure in our 15 year marriage, my childish and unyielding phobia of bees has caused him the most embarrassment. (DISCLAIMER: I didn’t dare ask if there was anything he finds worse to put up with, but let’s go with this one).
Forget the Birds, Let’s Talk About the Bees
I’ve been phobic of bees since I was about nine years old, starting with one incident in particular. I was leaning against our above-ground pool when I felt a bee fly up my shirt. I didn’t get stung, but I screamed and flapped my shirt while running around the yard thus beginning a pattern of inappropriate overreaction and disregard for social norms around bees.
Flash forward to the time my husband and I were meeting our realtor to view what would become our first house. I was 25, newly married with a real job and about to purchase a house. That sounds like a stable adult, right? Well, the problem is that Pennsylvania has this thing called a carpenter bee which you can identify by its tiny tool belt. I’m kidding of course—you can tell it’s a carpenter bee because it is the size of a grape and is either ominously hovering in one spot or erratically darting around you like a toddler on a sugar high. Anyway, as we were walking up to the house with our realtor, one of these suckers suddenly dive bombed me so I screamed and ran for cover. Not a little squeal but a real, live, tripped-over-a-dead-body-in-the-woods scream. Because everyone else in the situation was an actual adult and not a pretend one like me, nobody said anything about it but I could feel the sting(hah!) of embarrassment I caused my newlywed husband and myself.
You’ve Heard of MaccaBEES — Now for the Catholic Bees
There are so many more shameful and bizarre bee encounters in the intervening years but we’ll move on to the latest incidents at my church for the sake of brevity. I still kind of pretend to be an adult but I’m way more convincing now that we have three children and I wear a mantilla to Mass (I know, you’re thinking that’s a whole other level of weirdo but let’s just stick to the bees for now). It started gradually at first with a stray bee here or there. I’d be lying if I said I could handle that but I could at least hold it together long enough to get through Mass. Then sometime last spring, it became an all-out infestation and others were starting to talk. I would mentally catalogue stories of our organist getting stung out of nowhere, school students ruthlessly smashing bees with their “Rise Up and Sing” hymnals, and I watched as the bee carcasses piled up near the stained glass windows week after week.
Now, as a mantilla-wearing, NFP practicing, rosary saying, scapular wearing, borderline Traddy Catholic, it is utterly unthinkable for me to miss Mass or any part of it. I would mentally finger wag at those who leave right after communion in the “Judas shuffle” because that’s what church ladies in mantillas do. However, on more than one occasion when a bee decided to crash the holy sacrifice of the Mass, I have bolted.
The first couple of times it happened I’d sheepishly wait in the narthex for my family but then that’s where the bees started congregating (I’d mentally finger wag the bees for loafing in the narthex during Mass, in case you’re wondering). Sometimes in my pride, my exit was subtle as I coaxed one of the kids to come with me so it looked like we were doing a bathroom run. Other times I’d hurl my body over whoever is at the end of the pew and make a quick escape to whispers of “oh she must be allergic”. Thankfully I’m not, but I’d let them think it because an unnecessary poke with an EpiPen hurts less than the shame—I think, anyway.
My Bumbling and our Family’s Exodus
This all finally came to a head for me at a school Mass where all three of my children would be attending with my youngest daughter cantering. I told my kids that yes, I would come but I’m outta there as soon the bees start swarming. Because they have witnessed my hysteria, they dutifully nodded in acceptance, although my 11 year old daughter added an eye roll for good measure.
It was not only a school Mass but also one of the Holy Days so the place was packed with school personnel, students, and parishioners, including one of my BFFs who happens to be the mother of my youngest Godson. On a side note, she is awesome because she puts up with my weirdness including but not limited to the mantilla and bee nonsense.
As Mass started, so did the bee intimidation. I watched helplessly as one of my daughter’s unfortunate classmates, who apparently made the rookie mistake of using hair gel, was being harassed by one of the bees despite his best efforts to shoo it away. If I had been sitting closer, the terror of being near a bee would’ve been compounded by the utter shame of being too scared to swat it away for him. Fortunately for me, I was a safe distance away but nevertheless made a quick exit, stepping over my BFF and Godson which probably made her question her choice of Godmother in the first place.
After that, we spent the next couple of months flitting from parish to parish like honeybees in a field of wildflowers (great metaphor, odious creatures). Once again, my husband and children loved me enough to endure such things as being stuck at a “contemporary music” Mass at another parish. Ironically, I secretly wished the old hippies with guitars would suddenly be chased off by a swarm of angry bees before they got to the bridge in “City of God” but no such luck. Anyway, now that winter has set in, those infernal interlopers have gone to their eternal rest and we are safely back at our home parish.
My Own Road to Damascus
Now that we have resumed our Sunday morning routine, I have come to the conclusion that God has laid bare my utter weakness in front of my loved ones and entire parish to teach me about humility. This childish phobia has forever stifled the temptation in me to judge others and self-congratulate like a Pharisee because ‘thank God I’m not like one of those people’. You see, no matter how much Catholic street cred I think I have because I’m outwardly doing all the right things, all it took was a little tiny insect to send me scurrying out of Mass early in front of everyone, my black mantilla flapping behind me for dramatic effect. I may stroll in on a Sunday morning thinking I’m a pious martyr-in-training, but I know now that I’ll trample over friends and even a Godchild to get out of that pew if a bee buzzes my ear. Forget holiness, being a sane, rational, caring adult flies out the window whenever I meet a honey-maker (that isn’t yet a pejorative but it should be).
Another thing that has become apparent is how much the people in my life love me in a Christ-like way that I’m not capable of quite yet. I’m ashamed to admit that I lack charity in my thoughts and I wonder how compassionate I would be if I saw the spectacle from their point of view. My family endured a kind of nomadic worship for months for me without complaint and my BFF still brings my Godson to sit with me at Mass even after all of that. Sure, my husband, children and church BFF get a kick out of teasing me about the bees but they’re always laughing with me, never at me and that means a lot.
I also wonder how many times I’ve judged someone unfairly, not knowing that they’re leaving Mass because they’re overcome with anxiety or illness or whatever. That’s the thing about being a judgy church lady—it’s so easy for me to hide all my iniquities with my outward piety but God in His way has exposed my weakness to others and, most importantly, to myself. It’s easy to judge someone else with cold disdain when I can’t relate to their struggle, but being on this side of a ridiculous but very real anxiety, God has knocked me off my high horse. And just like Paul on the road to Damascus, I’m so thankful that He did.
