My dad has bees. Today, when I visited him, he showed me the honey he had harvested—an entire five-gallon bucket! As I lifted the lid, I noticed three tiny bees perched on the honey, struggling and nearly drowning. They were covered in sticky goo, barely able to move.
I asked if we could help them, but my dad shook his head. He was sure they wouldn’t survive. “They’re casualties,” he said. I insisted once more—at least to spare them from suffering. After all, he himself had taught me that sometimes compassion means helping an animal—or even an insect—come to a dignified end. He finally agreed. He took the bees out and placed them in an empty yogurt container outside.
Because of the honey harvest, the yard was already bustling with activity, with bees flying everywhere. We left the small survivors on a bench and walked away.
A while later, my dad called me over to witness something incredible. The three sticky bees were now surrounded by their sisters. The others were tending to them—gently wiping the honey off their tiny bodies, refusing to abandon them. When we checked again later, only one bee remained, still being cared for. And finally, before I left, we checked one last time: the container was empty. All three had been rescued and were able to fly again.
They lived because they weren’t alone. They lived because their family never gave up. They lived because their community believed in helping them until the very end.
Sister bees. Companion bees. United bees.
We could all learn from them.
Always—be kind. 🐝💛
