Silas Boone’s the kind of man who can turn a sermon into a bee lesson and a bee sting into a parable about sin. He’s the town’s philosopher-by-default: part preacher, part apiarist, and full-time expert in divine mischief.

So go on and imagine him out on his porch, boots up, veil hanging on a nail, bees humming out back like a lazy gospel choir, and the scent of honey drifting over the yard. He clears his throat, tips his hat, and says:

Now, I ain’t one to question the Almighty, but I do believe He made bees on a Monday. It was probably right after He’d run outta patience and before He’d had His second cup of coffee.

I took up beekeeping after my congregation thinned out like hair on a Dunn boy’s head. Folks said I preached too long. I said eternity’s longer, but that didn’t win me any favors. So I swapped my pulpit for a smoker and decided to tend God’s smaller, angrier flock.

The thing about bees is, they’re like people: hardworking, loud, and easily offended. You treat ‘em right, they’ll feed you sweet; cross ‘em once, and you’ll learn humility faster than a sinner at a tent revival.

One summer, we had a heat so thick it felt like wading through syrup. The hives were restless, the air heavy with warning, and I swear the queen herself had murder in her little golden heart. But I figured I’d be fine. The Lord protects His own.

I was halfway through checking the frames when I heard a shout. It was Harold Dunn, naturally, hollering something about a bear in the peach orchard. I looked up, swatted a bee off my nose, and next thing I knew, the whole hive rose up like the wrath of God.

They lit me up good. I danced across that field speaking in tongues not found in Scripture. Harold was laughing so hard he near fell into the fence. I told him if he didn’t hush, I’d baptize him in bees.

Now, I spent that night swollen in every direction, praying for deliverance and contemplating my call to ministry. But by morning, something strange had happened. The hives were calm. Docile, even. I could walk right up to ‘em, no veil, no smoke, and they’d hum gentle as lullabies.

Word spread quick, as it does in Piedmont. Folks said I’d made peace with the Lord’s insects. Said the bees knew my soul. One woman even brought her husband out here, thinking I could cure his hay fever by laying hands on his forehead. He sneezed so hard he knocked over a hive.

After that, I started selling jars of “The Lord’s Honey.” Folks swore it healed their arthritis, eased their hearts, and it made Harold Dunn’s mother quit gossiping for nearly three days.

Truth is, I never did figure out why those bees took a liking to me. Maybe they pitied an old fool who needed a second congregation. Maybe the Lord saw fit to show mercy through a swarm. Or maybe, and this is my favorite theory, the bees realized I was just as lost as they were, and that made us kin.

Either way, when I jar up the honey now, I make sure each label reads:

THE LORD’S HONEY — Guaranteed Sweetened by Faith and Suffering

And that’s no lie.

*****

New Yesterdays is available through the following links: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.