Dewy-Feather'd Sleep

Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep.

John Milton (1608-1674)
from Il Penseroso

While preparing dinner in the kitchen, I heard a buzzing that was loud enough to be detected, despite the radio playing. The buzzing was insistent enough to make me peek through the blinds, which were drawn to keep the sun's afternoon heat at bay.

Was it a wasp or a bee? I silently planned to check on it later. Dinner seemed the more important thing to attend to at the moment.

Later didn't come soon enough.

The next morning, I spied the forgotten bee on the window sill. Well, not actually on the window sill. That would have been more poetic. Instead, she was in the metal track in which the window slides. She had spent her last moments of life valiantly trying to return to the hive with her hard-won sustenance. I couldn't bear to see her there. A life all used up, without getting to return home. So I took her outside and lay her in a bed of golden flower petals. This seemed a more fitting resting place for one so driven to obey God's command for her life.

How often have I hurridly dismissed someone's plea for help, and thought, "Later..."?
Lord, help me to be mindful of hurts, burdens, and pleas.