Home of the Bellingwood Series – Nammynools

Bugs. Shudder.

Okay, I won’t say that I hate bugs, but I’m certainly weary of the bloody things. I turn lights on in other rooms so they’ll go there to die, rather than flutter and buzz around me when I’m working. My sister accuses me of working in a cave because it’s generally dark wherever I huddle. There’s so much more to it than just loving the night time – bugs leave me alone when it’s dark.

The entomologists among us will explain the many good reasons that bugs exist and I’m totally fine with that. I just wish they didn’t exist to fly up my nose when I breathe or drop on the top of my warmed butter (I forgot to put the lid on – whoops!). I’m not terribly fond of them waking me in the middle of the night by crawling along my skin or buzzing because they’ve been caught in a stray lock of hair. I’m tired of brushing aside cobwebs and then realizing that I’ve missed so many more than I found. Even though I was fascinated, watching a Daddy Longlegs suck the guts out of a bee was enough to make me finally just run away. I shudder at the black, wet things that crawl out of the ground and make their way onto my porch or the big yellow jackets or skinny wasps that catch TB’s eye.

Speaking of TB – here’s a quick cute picture to rid yourself of the hideous bug images that I might have created.

TB on Scratching Post

I’m pretty sure that God has laughed uproariously at my internal conflict. I love being here at the cabin and watching the glory of the season and the beauty of his creation. Until the bugs arrive. I’m not a fan of killing them. God’s creature have a right to live, so I do my best to scurry them outside. Until I’m just. freakin’. tired. of them. Getouttamyhouse, getouttamyhouse, getouttamyhouse! And take all your fuzzy friends with you.

One summer when we were very young, poor Carol had to put up with terrible abuse by her siblings. She hated (hates?) bugs more than I do and we were here at the cabin during a particularly entertaining box elder invasion. Jamie and I, being the loving sister and brother that we were, paid particular heed to her screams and found them entertaining. Until Mom had finally had enough, the poor girl was pelted with box elders every time we could get our hands on one. You know how those things move. Getting your hands on one is no issue. She’s not yet forgiven us for that and I don’t blame her.

I had hoped that with the incredible number of continuous below-zero days we had last winter, the life cycle of these annoyances might have been interrupted. But, you know what? That’s the glory of creation. It creates. While I am weary of bugs bothering me, that same creation has restored itself in beautiful ways. The trees are alive and their leaves are blowing in the wind; the grass is growing (faster than most of us would wish), the crops are alive and filling the fields. It is all part of a cycle and I prefer to live within that rather than in a sterile environment far from all of the beauty.

The bugs? I’ll whine about them, but I’ll put up with them. The beauty of creation is a gift.


Share on facebook
Share on google
Share on twitter
Share on linkedin
Share on pinterest
Share on print
Share on email