Let us bud forth. Let us spread out our branches bright and graceful. Let us be honey for each other. Let who we are and what we learn and what we be serve each other. Amen.
Let us be honey for each other.
As we said those words I had a brief vision of us greeting each other with “I love you, honey”, something like we used to do years ago when we curtsied to each other as we passed in the hall. The Christ in me greets the Christ in you.
Honey, of course, is the amazing food and gift of bees, who work tirelessly to gather flower nectars then work their bee magic to make the amazingly sweet and healthy golden treat we all enjoy on our biscuits and in our tea.
Honey needs nothing added to it (though I can’t imagine what one might want to put in there), and it lasts for a very long time. Stored with the right water content and in the right temperatures, it can last for years. Should something go agley with the storage plan honey can ferment, making it unfit for humans—yet bees will happily consume it themselves.
The flavor of honey, though always recognizable as honey—not cane sugar or maple syrup, for example—varies widely depending on which plants are in bloom when nectar is being gathered by the bees.
So … wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all became honey for each other. There would be an essential sweetness to everyone, yet our rich and necessary diversity would be maintained. We would feed each other, and ourselves. We would all be deliciously good and, when treated properly, our friendships would last a very long time.
It’s worth a try. Say “I love you, honey” to your sweetie, your children, your neighbor, your boss. OK, if you’re fairly sure “I love you, honey” would earn you a slap or get you fired, you should probably just say it in your head. Maybe we’ll feel just a little better about our own lives when we recognize and name the goodness in others, whether or not anyone actually hears the words.
Can’t hurt, anyway. I love you, honey, I’m going to smile at the mailman, our distant neighbors, the person behind me in the check-out line at the store. Maybe I’ll even give it a go with the sister I find so difficult or the government clerk who seemed so irritated at everyone who came to her window.
I love you, honey. The farmer’s namaste.