The carpenter bee is a fascinating little creature. Her stubby body appears anything but aerodynamic, yet she can hover, pivot, back up, and dart forward with amazing agility. But I would enjoy watching her and her kind a lot more if they would quit eating holes in my barn timbers. The holes she chews in my wood become nests for laying her eggs.  

These bees are territorial, and each bee fiercely guards what she considers her property. That is what the hovering is all about. She challenges anything that flies near her nest—a butterfly, a wasp, or another bee can expect to be confronted. One astute little bee shot skyward in hot pursuit of a passing vulture. The message is unmistakable. “This is my property. Stay away.”  

If the carpenter bee could understand English or even Spanish, I’d like to ask her some questions. “Madam, how did this barn become your property? I paid thousands of my hard-earned dollars to have it built. I thought it was my barn. Why are you chewing holes all over something that does not belong to you?” I’d like to write her side of the imaginary conversation, but I cannot think of a single sane reason she might give for claiming my barn as her territory.  

But listen. From somewhere I hear God’s voice asking me, “Why are you claiming my barn as your own? Whose money did you buy it with? Where did you get the strength to earn that money? Who endowed you with the intelligence to even know you needed a barn? Who gave you the senses to watch the bees chewing holes and to listen to their buzzing?”  

As I consider the matter, I cannot think of a single sane reason I might give for claiming God’s barn as my territory.  

The barn, the bee, and me belong to God, all three.