On The Bumble Bee and Job

I sit quietly on the porch having read the most ancient man Job, in the most Ancient Text.  I am listening to Nat King Cole, his fingers trotting softly up and down the piano, giving my time with Him, I AM, a musical background.  I marvel at the lake beyond and the kindness of putting such glory in the fingers of a single man, and I sip my coffee and think the same of the coffee bean.  Job was forced to face the fact that grace was enough.  It is a hard fact to face when all ten of your children have violently died.  I have a pot of flowers that sits beside me every morning. Grace is displayed before me as morning after morning the bumble bee buries itself in the nourishment he finds in leaves but never once flies up to the flower the leaves support to marvel at its beauty.  What divine thing must lie in the crevices between stem and leaf the bee finds so filling?  Grace!!!