A Worker Bee

When people ask me to describe myself, I say that I am a worker bee.

I get the greatest fulfillment from jumping into a task and working like a drone until it is finished. And thanks to the genetics from my Grandpa Gresko, I can work and work and work and work. When my parents lived with us, my dad and I took on the task of renovating the house and yard. My dad, who is a great worker, told me, "You can out-work me, Kris. I don't know how you keep at it for so long."

When I was in high school, I connected with the scripture in 2 Nephi that talks about "being an instrument in the hands of God." That's what I want to be, an instrument.

This morning, a friend sent me this poem and said it reminded her of me.

TO BE OF USE by Marge Piercy

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

That is what I ask. Let me be of use.