MITCH & THE HORNET’S NEST*
One of my favorite memories with our young kids was sitting on the porch on a hot summer evening eating popsicles and enjoying the approaching sound of crickets. I can still smell their freshly shampooed hair and feel the softness of their pajamas – just out of the dryer. When I look at this photo, I’m reminded of Gretchen Rubin’s observation of raising a family, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Oh, how the years slip by.
One hot summer evening, Mitch tapped my shoulder and said, “Dad, get some Windex and come check this out. Something weird is happening.” Mitch held my hand as he led me toward a light along the edge of our driveway.
When we were about 10 feet from the light, Mitch whispered, “Shhh, Dad, … listen.” We could hear a faint buzzing noise, and the closer we got to the light, the louder the sound became.
Mitch pointed to the silhouette of a hornet busy building a home in the warm embrace of the light. “I think he’s building a house in there, Dad,” Mitch said with the tone of a detective. Mitch also knew that a generous spray of Windex on a bee sting helps take the pain away. Always prepared, he was a good little Scout.
“Should we dig it out?” I asked. Mitch furrowed his brow as if to weigh the options. “Let’s investigate.” He said. Mitch put his hands on his knees as he bent over as he looked more closely. “I don’t want to hurt them, but I’m afraid they’ll sting me.” Mitch was right – hornets can’t be domesticated, and all the benevolence in the world won’t change that. So, we carefully placed a net around the light and gently removed the growing nest. “Dad, will you put the nest in the secret forest? That way, they can make a home up there.”
With that, I ran to the top of our yard and gently placed the hornets’ nest at the foot of two large boulders – far from where the kids would ever play. The next morning Mitch asked if I’d check on the nest; all the hornets were gone. “Oh well, at least I’m safe now.”
At an early age, Mitch gained a healthy respect for the things that would hurt him. Because his muscles were weak, he was always prone to trip and fall; he lacked the coordination and strength to break his fall – so pain was often his companion. I was ever moved by Mitchell’s compassion toward insects and every living thing. He knew their nature – and while he didn’t want to hurt them, but he was wise enough to keep his distance.
Since losing Mitch, I’ve tried to emulate his kind-hearted way of being. Yet, we’ve encountered some hornets on our grief journey. Though difficult at times, I had to remind myself that “hurt people, hurt people.” Remembering that truth doesn’t make their sting hurt less – it only reminds me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do for our mental health is to remove the hornets from our lives. Like Mitch, I didn’t want to hurt them – but I had to create safe distance so we could do the work of healing. Thankfully, there haven’t been many of them.
Even though we removed the aggressive hornets, we’ve experienced the sting of indifference from people close to us: the impatience that we haven’t ‘moved on’ (as though we could magically stop loving our child), the Monday-morning quarterbacks, the pious pontiffs, and the well-meaning but misinformed. As if grief isn’t tricky enough.
What Mitchell’s life has taught me is that strength comes through struggle – and we’re often better because of it. Perspective has become my Windex – and when I feel a sting from someone fumbling or someone mean, I apply it generously. At least for me, that’s the only way to be.