Wasp

01 Oct, 2026

Since I moved into my “new” apartment, I’ve killed dozens and dozens of bugs.

Along with a whole compendium of unidentifiable dots, I’ve squished houseflies, lantern flies, ladybugs, mosquitoes, gnats.

These “lessers” are predictable. My room has no ceiling light, so they circle a cheap floor lamp—attracted to the unnatural light.¹ They slam into the lamp shade, land on the walls, then after a brief pause, spiral again. Most of the time, I ignore them; but if they become distracting, I end them with the same indifference.

Though today, today there was a wasp in my room. From first glance, I knew It was no “lesser”—It was different. It remained still, pressed against the wall above the lamp. It was about the length of my thumbnail, with a swollen abdomen pinched into its thorax. Black trimmed Its body and gathered at Its face, where eyes wrapped around an awful yellow beak.²

I was disgusted.

As I moved in for the kill, the Wasp, as if sensing hostility, leapt to life with a constant, harried cry. I paused. I was used to this sort of routine; within a few moments, I was sure, the Wasp would exhaust itself and I would have my kill. Instead, It raged on. It slammed itself in short loops from wall to lamp, lamp to ceiling, ceiling to wall, then back to the ceiling in increasingly large loops. It was slowing; I took a swipe and missed; It darted into another room.

Following the trail of angry cries, I found It whirling about the ceiling light—a pale dome swelling to a blunted point. It traced the fixture from top down; upon reaching the bottom, It erratically slammed into the into the finial, landed, readjusted, and slammed into the finial again and again. Each time, It fell a farther before catching itself, and each time, It rose and struck again.

Now, perhaps I’m anthropomorphizing, but as I watched the Wasp’s desperation grow and energy fade, I thought I understood. To a eusocial yellow jacket, a pale dome hanging from the ceiling looks like a nest; It was trying to get "home."

I thought of the Christian interpretations of Jesus at the cross, where He hung between heaven and earth disconnected from God. And in Christ, I saw us all.

In our secular world, where distractions and shortcomings are plentiful, what connections do any of us have to some higher purpose? At least the Wasp has the instinctual command—for the hive and for the queen—what greater instinct do we obey? The moral law, written on man’s soul, disparaged and denied by a self-righteous mob?

How can I distinguish nests from lights? I’m amongst “friends,” but I feel alone; tell me, have I mistaken convenience for camaraderie? In ten years, who will I know? Who will be the "best man" at my wedding? You? What can You promise beyond humiliation and disappointment?

I heard nothing beyond the stillness of the Wasp.

I swung.