Bumblebees have risen from the dead. At least half a dozen bobbed and hovered by me on this afternoon’s walk beside Sand Creek.

Theirs is a sluggish resurrection, and they all seem disoriented. They wobble back and forth in the air, headed no place in particular, or sit dully on eaves and sidewalks. Not one was perched on a flower, though this premature spring offers flowers in profusion. They duck, run, and dally like forward guards off the bench for the first time in a season–so glad to be in play that they forget the rules of the game.

An Internet article about the life cycle of a bumblebee reveals a disturbing fact: The stomach of a bumblebee can hold just enough nectar to sustain flight for forty minutes. If it finds no food in that time, a bumblebee is grounded. Then it starves to death.

So this first day out of the nest is no time for blinking stupor. Bumblebees that go right to work will live another day, while those that don’t will perish with the setting sun. I suppose that if they have a theology, the Puritans among them hold an edge.

Golden February sunlight casts long shadows across the lawn this afternoon. The weather has been so balmy for the past month that it doesn’t seem like winter at all. Buds on the ornamental pear are swelling to burst and mallards are staking their claim to ponds along Sand Creek. Temperatures dropped  under a clear sky last night, so our pond had a skin of ice again this morning, but I fear that spring may yet be born prematurely.

“Time out of joint,” Shakespeare would have called this. Seasons deranged. March arrives in two weeks, according to the calendar, but Indiana’s weather observes the dictates of no one’s calendar this year.

I am but a spectator to nature’s convoluted plot. Will it turn out tragedy? comedy? or farce? If I need sunglasses in February, should I buy an ice scraper for May? I can only wait for the next act to unfold, conscious again that God is sovereign.

Long ago, I gave up trying to control my circumstances and contented myself with anticipating them, but this quirky February demonstrates even that is beyond me. My Lord says, “It is not for you to know the times and seasons which the Father has put in his own authority” (Acts 1:7).

The seasons of nature and seasons of life are truly beyond my control and, occasionally, beyond my comprehension.