This morning I destroyed (or at least attempted to destroy) a yellow jacket hive, a burrow beside my favorite apple tree.  I attacked early, hoping that few inhabitants would be flying to and fro across our acre.  I took a rusty gas can with about a pint of old gas in it and hastily tipped it up over the hole.  Then I contemplated how I might light the gasoline.  I waited a half hour or so and then approached.  After several attempts to light a long, thin redwood pole, I resorted to tossing a lighted match down the hole which was guarded at the time by a swarm of hovering yellow jackets.  Dressed in a parka (not all that odd for a foggy, July, Angwin morning), gloves, baseball cap and two, count them, two pairs of jeans, I lit the match, edged close and threw it.  A furious little blaze answered my attempts and I backed off to watch.  It was not long before the yellow jackets which had been on the prowl tried to return home.  Determinedly they dive-bombed the flames.  After some initial attempts they retreated only to return with dogged commitment when the flames had slackened.  With the hole now plainly visible, a bee would approach.  This little creature would test the flames, flying between them, quickly darting in and out as if a participant in a fencing match with the fire.  Eventually, most of the bees which tried (and who's to say the ones who flew away did not return to face their fate) courageously dived for the hole and, with a little sizzle, died.  I watched the little drama unfold again and again.  The bees just couldn't seem to help themselves, the drive to get home was too strong.  They showed great skill in staying out of the flames, but the moment of commitment came and they answered the call.

        As I watched, I prayed for such loyalty, such a determined appetite for home, for God.  

--John McVay, July 30, 1997