I'd just gotten a divorce after 14 years of marriage. After having to sell our big dream home, I'd managed to buy a much smaller house that was just big enough for my two daughters and me. It was mouse infested and needed lots of work when I bought it, but I had done everything I could to make the little house feel right for us. I painted with colors I loved, decorated in all the pink I wanted, sewed perfect little floral valances that my former husband would have hated, and hung girly Irish lace cafe curtains in the kitchen. For inspiration, I'd even hung a huge picture of Rosie the Riveter with the words, "We Can Do It" in huge block letters at the end of our main hallway. Yet, my girls and I were still feeling alone and sad about where we now found ourselves.
One day, I was cleaning out the fireplace and noticed a thick, gooey, substance pooling under the grate. I was horrified. I had heard birds in the chimney earlier in the week and believed that one had died up in there and decomposition had begun. I thought, in the Texas heat, that the bird was liquefying or something. I called my former husband and asked him to come over and see if that was, indeed, what had happened. I had no idea how to remove something that was up in the flue.
He came over, knelt down on the hearth and began investigating. I sat on the couch watching, totally grossed out. Before long, he reached down and touched the puddle of muck and actually tasted it! As I was just about to shriek about how nasty that was, he gave a slight laugh and said, "It's bees. You've got honey bees in your chimney. And, from the sounds of it, there is an entire colony in there."
From that moment on, I knew I was home. I'd always wanted to keep bees after watching my grandfather tend his hives. And now, those amazing insects had chosen my house as their safe place to make their home and do their work. The fireplace was literally dripping with the golden, sweet substance. I placed a bowl in the fireplace and made good use of the honey when I wanted some hot tea.
I never felt alone again. That little house is now and forever will be known for me and my daughters as, "The Happy House." It was our safe place to make our home and do the work of healing. We would survive and life would go on. We would make it work. Who needs a perfect hive?
I later learned that my own name, Melissa, is Greek for honey bee. It fits. It all makes sense now.