There was a bumblebee perched on the kneeler in the pew in front of us at church. Ann and Zack urged me to kill it because they were worried it would sting somebody.
Jesus wouldn’t kill that bee, I told them.
“Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers,” Zack whispered. “One of them could have landed on a bee.” That would be an accident, I whispered back. Besides, if there was a bee in the temple, Jesus would have sent it to sting the money changers.
He was satisfied by that, so we watched and waited and made dumb jokes, like “Peace BEE with you,” and “Thanks BEE to God.” We get a big kick out of ourselves. When mass was over, we grabbed a plastic cup and went to capture the bee. He asked if I was afraid of being stung. I pulled out the reply I use whenever the kids question my manhood:
“Zack, I go into burning buildings and stare down the red devil. I’m not afraid of a bee.” Shuts then up every time.
We carefully transported the bee outside and before releasing it into the wild showed it to the priest. I guess we figured he would commend us for saving a life, but instead he says, “Nice work, St. Francis. I would have just smooshed it.”