Death: Where, oh Death is your Sting? (Monologue)

(based on a story by Frank Paretti)

I used to spend a big part of my summer vacations out in the country at my Grandma and Grandpa's farm. My grandpa's truck didn't have air conditioning, so we would drive around with the windows rolled down. One day as my grandpa and I were driving along a dirt road, a bee flew in my window and immediately began buzzing around my head. Naturally, being a city kid, I freaked out. I began screaming and crying.

Of course, my grandpa tried to calm me. He said, (imitating a deep voiced old man) "Relax, baby, it's just a honey bee. He won't sting you. As soon as he finds out that you have nothing to eat, he'll leave you alone."

But I was inconsolable. I had been stung by bees before and I just knew this bee was out to get me. I continued to scream until Grandpa reached out and snatched the bee out of midair with his bare hand. Then, without warning, he held his fist up to my ear.

(reliving the moment, cowers, child's voice) "What are you doing, Grandpa?!" I asked in a panic.

Grandpa whispered, "Shhhhh, listen."

Reluctantly I held my head still while he put his fist near my ear.

(relives the moment, cocks head) "Grandpa! He's buzzing! He's still alive! Isn't he stinging your hand?"

Grandpa held his fist near his own ear. (imitates) "Not yet. But he sounds really mad. I'm sure he'll...." (pulls hand away from ear painfully)

Just then grandpa's face twitched. I knew that the bee had stung him at that moment. "I'm sorry, Grandpa. That was my fault. If I had just kept still..."

But before I could finish my sentence, Grandpa interrupted. "Don't fret, baby." He said. "There's a lesson to be learned here."

"What lesson?" I asked.

Then without saying a word, Grandpa held his arm straight out in front of me and opened his hand. (opens hand dramatically near chin, watches imaginary bee escape)

"Grandpa! You let him get away!"

"Don't fret, baby!

"But he's going to sting me!"

"He can't sting you now, baby."

"He can't?"

"No. Look at my hand." (tilts hand slightly toward audience) "What do you see?"

"There's a red spot. There." (points to own hand)

"Look closer. What's right in the middle of the red spot?"

"Is that the stinger, Grandpa?"

"Yes, baby. He can't hurt you now." (winks) "His sting is gone."

(sigh, strolls) A few months later, Grandpa was on his death bed. And, of course, I was crying my eyes out. Grandpa called me over to his side and said, (stops) "Don't cry for me, baby. Remember the lesson of the bee."

And he held up his fist and opened it for me. (puts fist near chin, opens it dramatically) In spite of the fact the redness was long gone from Grandpa's hand (points to hand) and the bee's stinger had been removed long ago, I remembered the lesson of the bee very well, because that summer I put my future into the hands of Jesus, (puts other hand into open hand, then opens both toward the sky) whose hands still bear the marks that were meant for me.

I'll never forget Grandpa's last words to me before he died: "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"

©2001 Bob Snook. Conditions for use:
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