How Great Thou Art
- Editorial Staff
- Aug 11
- 8 min read
by Nancy Buonaccorsi Goodmiller
Good for the soul, to stand so close to a Giant Sequoia as to feel dwarfed, to feel the edges of our size and scope and strength. One leans back, of course, to try to see its top. My neck hurt, craned that far back; my mouth opening as my jaw remains behind. I tilt my head way back and try to see the tip of the giant trunk, disappearing above its branches and needles and cones. I can’t; I’m too close, and I’m smacked by its immensity, its solid mass.
I can’t help but consider the size of life: length, breadth, depth. Me, us humans, an elephant, an ox—slight next to a Giant Sequoia, soaring three hundred feet tall, fifty times the height of a fair-sized adult male; living fifty times longer, some three thousand years—we’re way smaller, way down here. I recall the photo I took of my son, arms wide, embracing, as far as he could, the breadth of the trunk of an ancient Sequoia. His fingertips barely making it five feet around the twenty-foot diameter of the fissured red giant, a grin on his face.
Depth can simply mean the distance down. Considering the Sequoia, depth would include its roots. The roots of the Giant Sequoia reach only twelve to fourteen feet down into its soil. Deceptive, this depth seeming so shallow to support such a huge life above the ground. Perhaps support comes from more than depth of foundation. I look this up and feel intrigued, inspired, and enlightened by the information: the root systems of the Sequoia extend horizontally more than vertically, and they wrap their roots around those of other trees in the forest. They create a strong network. They are planning ahead—for wind, storms, earthquakes. The Giant Sequoia’s roots also share nutrients with its neighbors’ roots, receive nutrition from fungi in the soil, and provide sugar to those same fungi. Hidden, important, imperative connections providing for the strength and livelihood of old, huge, beautiful Sequoias gracing our forests.
The depths of my thoughts continue diving, seem to have no end; seeking to make and feel connections; looking to grab on.
A little honeybee, half an inch long, foraging at the end of her life, lives about two weeks to five months, depending on the time of the year. She works her entire life, many jobs before flying out of the hive into the light seeking nectar and pollen, and I consider her as I spread a spoonful of amber honey onto my crunchy toast. Then another. Her short, small life, supporting and supported by her sisters in the hive, her replacements provided by their queen mother, is essential; maybe huge. She is not here to provide honey for my toast but to carry out the symbiotic relationship with plants needing pollination; plants that support the humans gaping at the Sequoias.
By the grace of god, or Darwinian design, we are somewhere in between the Giant Sequoia and the tiny bee, as is the grizzly bear, the hummingbird, the rattlesnake, the elephant and the ox. As is a barrel cactus, who will not make a sound or move a limb, and who may live 100 years. Its features are adapted for survival in its arid environment (water storage, protective spines, among others), but it, too, maintains important connections: offering its cactus flowers to pollinators; fruit and seeds for hungry animals.
I also can’t help but think of our various lives on our spinning home, our comings and goings and intertwining, as it circumvents our star—we, us, seated, swimming, flying, squirming, running, rooted, living. I think of this as I’m trying to resuscitate a cold honeybee covered in sticky honey while listening to a 2-hour memorial service held in a Presbyterian Church in Towson, Maryland, live-streaming on YouTube. The memorial service is for a vital, kind, respected, too-young-of-a-man-to-go; my husband’s cousin, Ed, who died suddenly three days before Christmas of unexpected heart failure. I stayed here, in California, grateful to be able to witness.
And so, a honeybee was witness, too. My husband and I (beekeepers) had put a plastic bin containing a little honey in the garden the previous morning. The small amount of honey was left over from an autumn harvest and we felt it a kind offer for foraging bees to feast on. As the day warmed, bees flew in in droves for hours. They’d carry their bounty back to their colony (perhaps a hive box in the neighborhood, maybe a hollow tree), and return for more. Flight paths crisscrossed the backyard. Feeling generous, ’twas the season, I went out in the afternoon to watch their feast, but found that too many had stepped too deeply into the sticky stuff. Bogged down, bees slogged around, could hardly move, couldn’t fly out. I set about to rescue them with little twigs - lifting each out to safety, assuming they or their hive mates would clean themselves up. I thought I’d rescued them all.
Late that evening, foragers having returned to their homes as they do, I aimed to prevent the problem from happening again the next day by covering the bin of honey with its tight lid, but saw a straggler. She was deeply mired in the honey, not moving. Clearly responsible, having created the problem she would not have encountered on her own, I proceeded to rescue her. I carefully inserted a small twig under her glistening, sticky body, worried about damaging her wings or legs. Was she even still alive? She didn’t move and looked crumpled over the stick. A few mis-tries, her falling back into the sticky mess, getting further coated, I finally managed to lift her out of the honey onto a waiting leaf and carry her into our garage. I placed her, stuck on the stick and leaf, into my warm water shower zone: that area where I had successfully cleansed previous foragers who’d immersed themselves in honey during a honey harvest in our yard. I gently placed her onto a dampened paper towel on our washing machine.
A warm water shower: squeezing warm water from a drenched paper towel over the little insect seemed to rinse her, slowly, slightly, perhaps enough, from her immobilizing coating. She moved a leg. One wing. Had she lost her other wing, was it damaged, or was it glued to her side? I continued until she started to walk, slowly, only one wing showing. I would herd her with her now-released stick, don’t walk off the washing machine and fall to the concrete garage floor! Back and forth, slow movements, around and around, stay away from the edge!
I’ve always liked insects. I find their interconnectedness and resilience fascinating. Inspiring. My husband and I have kept bees for about fourteen years. Bees work hard, smell good, make their soothing buzzing noise (but freaky when caught in your hair or clothes), provide essential service, embody interrelationship, and create delicious honey. Small, vital, important.
So, I gave her a few more squeezes of warm water, doing what I felt I could, wished her good luck, and went inside. It was now nighttime.
The morning of the memorial service: it’s cold outside in Lafayette, California, early January (much colder in Towson, Maryland. My husband is there). I make my coffee, tend to our dogs, then walk to the garage to discover the fate of the honeybee. Apparent partial success! She had crawled up onto the vertical control panel on the washing machine and stood there. She was not moving, but she’d made it that far! I exhaled my warm (coffee) breath onto her body and she trembled. Fluttered her wings a wee bit. Both wings! I grabbed a pint mason jar and gently lifted her into the jar with another damp paper towel. I figured the dampness would provide a bit of water in case she were thirsty. I carried the cold bee in the cold jar into the house, covered the top with foil, poked with breathing holes, and set her jar onto our forced air heater vent blowing warm air.
8:00 AM, PST. Time to tune into the memorial service. Laptop on the table, YouTube on the screen, Bee in the now-warmed jar next to me. I could watch it all. Folks were walking around near the front of the church, handshakes, embracing. Bee was starting to walk on her damp surface; little steps. I quickly got up to find a toothpick, dip it into a jar of honey, lift the lid and place some breakfast into the jar in case she were hungry. The pianist plays People Need the Lord on the raised platform at the front side of the church. I’m seated, dining chair not pew, second coffee in hand, Bee exploring her container, the service begins.
Sometime between the Sentences of Scripture and the chorus singing What a Wonderful World, Bee walked along all the ridges and folds and valleys of her damp towel. I excused myself and went outside for a moment to check the temperature of the air (seemed consistent with my phone weather app, less than 50 degrees). The surface of the patio table felt cold. Too cold for Bee.
I returned to a reading from Micah and another choral sing: Rise Up, My Love.
Bee and I listen to the Sharing of Memories: Ed was a beloved man with deep family connections, who provided valuable service to his community, integrity in his work, and exuded inclusive warmth that touched all who knew him. His immediate and extended family were there, his work colleagues, his dear friends. The large church was packed. Ed’s three sons spoke, his brother spoke, then others close to him. They spoke of his important work, his depth of connections, his grace, his generosity, his vitality. Everyone’s shared love.
New Testament readings, the Reverend’s sermon, How Great Thou Art on piano. The service was three-quarters through. I dashed out again. Still too cold. Bees don’t fly below fifty degrees. A close friend reads a poem about heroes, endurance, courage, and commitment. It’s getting closer to 10:00. The congregation reads Psalm 23 and sings On Eagle’s Wings.
Bee is eager now; walking quickly and trying to fly within her jar; I hear her buzzing. I go out into the garden. Bees are on the Rosemary flowers. It’s warm enough. I rush back inside, bring Bee out, open her jar. She takes off, flies out, no hesitation, arcs off to the right. Is that her arcing back to the left, back into the garden? Hard to tell, bees are flying. I’m happy. I think, as much as bees can be happy, she is, too.
I’m back inside for the Postlude, Marche Triomphale, on organ.
Size, breadth, depth, and length of lives may seem inconsequential on their own. But none are on their own. Roots intertwine, networks expand, connections continue, hands are held. Little Bee, who may live another week or two, already back to her vital work, has no premonition of her end. So essential, she carries no self-importance.
The mourners, the family, supporters, and friends file out of the church as one. I watch them— nodding, reaching out, patting each other’s backs, locking arms.
The bees now cover the Rosemary, flitting from flower to flower, loud buzzing, busy at work.
Nancy Buonaccorsi Goodmiller lives in her hometown of Lafayette in Northern California, where she and friends rode their horses down the main street decades ago. Retirement from her career in special education gives her more time to write, as well as hike the East Bay hills, Mt. Diablo, and the Sierra. A participant in Diablo Writers Workshop for the last five years, Nancy’s work has appeared in Minnow Literary Magazine, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Where The Meadows Reside, among others. Her love of animals includes her dogs, cat, hives of honeybees, and most other creatures.
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