All the buzz
Most winters, it will happen at some point.
I will be minding my own business somewhere in my house and I’ll hear it. It will seem like a very strange sound because I don’t expect to hear it in the winter, but there will be no mistaking it: something is buzzing somewhere. And it sounds huge.
It usually doesn’t take too long to track it down, and when I find it, I’m totally disgusted every time.
It’s the middle of winter and somehow an oversized, hairy, gross, black house fly is buzzing around one of my window frames. It flies as if it’s drunk, bobbing and weaving and clumsily banging itself against the window glass, unable to function normally in the cold. It sounds like a B-52.
Seriously…where the hell did that nasty thing come from, anyway? How did it get in here? Where has it been hiding that it could be overlooked during the past two months of winter weather?
It’s a no-brainer to grab the fly swatter, usually only employed during the summer months, and dispatch the vile pest.
And I think to myself: this is what it’s like to be out of season. This is what it’s like to stay too long.
In the third chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes, King Solomon writes very poetically that “there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
Seasons come and go. Each season calls for different approaches, different responses. We shift and we adapt. But if the season changes and we fail to shift and adapt, we’ll end up like that yucky old house fly: overstuffed and undersped, an easy target for a swatter as we bumble around some closed window.
I really don’t have a season of mercy for house flies. As far as I’m concerned, for them it’s always time to die.