First Inspection 5/10/25
Listening to the Hive
April 27th we welcomed them—three swarms of fierce little workers and a queen in each, humming with instinct and memory, carrying something of Eden in their wings. And now, two weeks later, it was time to see how they’d settled into their new home.
The day broke just right. Sixty-seven degrees. Soft breeze. Sunlight gentle like a benediction. That kind of weather where everything feels possible again. Spring waking the bones of the world.
I began with the entrance reducers. A small thing, really. Just widening the doorway a little so the bees don’t pile up at the threshold. But even this felt like a kind of blessing—making space for life to come and go freely, unhindered, like God meant it to be. No more traffic jam at the front porch.
There’s a rhythm to inspection. You don’t just barge into a hive. It’s a relationship. You ask permission, in a way. A few puffs of smoke at the entrance. Then gently lifting the outer cover, slipping a little smoke beneath it. Letting them know I’m here. Letting them settle. Then the inner cover, same ritual. All of it slow, deliberate, respectful.
And then the hive is open.
Bees hum around my face, but they’re calm. The smoke works. They head down into the frames, clearing the way. I pull the outermost frame first, the one where the queen’s least likely to be. You move carefully. This is her kingdom, after all. One slip and you could crush her. You could crush so much more than her body.
Frame by frame, I check the signs of life. This is where wonder meets discipline. You’re looking for wax cells—they’ve started building them up nicely on the black foundation. You’re looking for eggs, smaller than rice, nestled like tiny white promises in the dark. You’re looking for larva, curled like commas of hope. Some still open, some capped in flat covers—those will be daughters. Others puffed out like bubbles—sons in the making.
The black foundation helps. It’s easier to spot what’s fragile, new, beginning. Kind of poetic, really.
And it’s not just eggs and larva. It’s pollen. Honey. Bee bread. The entire economy of the hive is on display. Order, purpose, abundance. It’s staggering, really. How something so small can carry so much glory.
I found all three queens. Young yet, but strong. Their laying patterns are dense, intentional, wide patches of life unfurling beneath them. As they mature, they’ll get easier to find. But they’re here. They’re doing what they were made to do.
And maybe that’s the real story here. Watching creation do what it was meant to do. There’s something in a beehive that speaks of the Kingdom. There’s a wisdom in their work, a fierceness in their unity, a glory in their order. The brood stays near the center, honey at the edges—warmth and provision working together to protect what’s growing.
When I put the frames back, I try to honor that design. Keep the rhythm. Keep the shape of things as they left them. Because they know something we’ve almost forgotten: life flourishes where order and love hold hands.
I walked away from the hives that day with the same feeling I get after a slow walk in the woods or a long, deep prayer. Centered. Humbled. Grateful.
There’s a gospel in the hive, if you know how to listen.
Want to support the bees? Right now we are supporting our bees via selling beekeeping lessons and donations. Check out the education hub for info on lessons or make a donation via:
Yay for the bees! Blessed are the beekeepers! 🐝💛