Last night, while I sat near the patio door reading, a hulking black bear lumbered up the steps of the deck behind me. At the railing, he rose on his hind legs. With a swat of one huge paw, he knocked our bird feeder to the ground.

How does a grown woman react when she's standing almost nose to nose with a 200-pound wild animal? First, she thanks God for the thin sheet of glass separating them. Then, she screams like a screech owl for her husband, of course. The husband (who is much braver than I am when a bear is standing three feet away) slid the glass door open and yelled "Get outta here!" But I don't think this bear understood English -- or human for that matter.

The bear's lack of fear disturbed me. Now, I'm not the kind of person who strikes fear in any heart, so it was no surprise to me that I didn't scare the bear. The husband, on the other hand, is definitely one scary dude. He looks like a deranged Grizzly Adams, and he could easily win an axe murderer look alike contest. Let me put it this way: If we were strangers and I encountered him on a dimly lit street, I would cross to the other side, step up my pace, and keep my spraying finger planted firmly on the nozzle of my mace can. The only way he could be scarier is if he had big bushy eyebrows and hair growing out his ears and nose. Oh, wait. He already does have big bushy eyebrows and hair growing out his ears and nose. Well, then, I guess the only way he could be any scarier would be if he had three arms, an extra eye in the middle of his forehead, and teeth protruding from his ears.

But back to the bear. He or she -- whatever it was (it's difficult to determine a bear's gender without close inspection, which I'm not willing to attempt) this bear was not afraid of the husband. It ignored him, intent upon gobbling its bird seed snack. Only after it had finished the last sunflower seed and destroyed what was left of the bird feeder, did the bear stroll off into the woods.

For you city folks who may not understand the ways of the woods, let me enlighten you about bears. In the Fall, they stuff themselves silly (much like I do all year long). They gorge themselves with berries, garbage, and dead things (much like my dog does). They develop a huge layer of belly fat (much like mine). Then they sleep for several months (which is an effective way to avoid the cold north woods winters). What a life! I should have been born a bear. I do, after all, have the temperament and hairy legs for it, and I would love to sleep the winter away.

Anyway, bears awake from hibernation with tremendous appetites (kind of like mine after I've fasted for two hours), but there is little for bears to eat in Spring when vegetation hasn't begun to grow.

Now, if a bear's stomach is anything like mine, its middle-of-the-night growling cannot be ignored. In fact, the quiet grumble intensifies till it sounds like a howler monkey screaming "Feed me -- NOW!" Many nights, out of necessity, I abandon my cozy bed and forage for food. Hunger compels me to do it. I hate stumbling downstairs in a sleepy fog to search for a midnight snack, usually stubbing a toe or running into a wall along the way. However, my demanding gut is as relentless as a teenager begging for car keys. It keeps annoying, wearing me down, till I can't stand any more and I'll do whatever it takes to appease it.

It's the same way for bears. Their children don't beg for car keys, but their ravenous appetites dictate their behavior. They become more bold and aggressive when food is scarce. That's why I don't take spring-time hikes through the woods. In fact, I'm not real brave in my own front yard.

I often cross the yard between my house and car while unconcerned critters munch away at my lawn, eyeing me with a nonchalant air that implies, "This is OUR territory. Why are YOU in it?"

We've shooed porcupines away more than once for chomping on our porch posts. And there's a mini herd of cavalier deer who dine each evening just steps from my front door.

So you can understand why I'm a little apprehensive outside in the dark. Actually, I'm more than a little apprehensive. I'm a big chicken. That's why I take my dog out with me (all fifteen poodle-pounds of him) to stand guard while I carry groceries in from the car.

King Louie's duty is to scare away monsters, burglars, and beasts, but he's not cut out for the job. He intimidates no one except the fainthearted UPS man who hasn't yet discovered that Louie doesn't have teeth.

Once, a defiant buck had the gall to stroll right onto my porch in pursuit of my pansies. It sniffed at the dumbfounded dog who stood mute, trembling with fear. And I'm no better than Louie at scaring away wild animals. They ignore me, even when I stomp, yell, and flap my flabby arms like a giant, crazed, bat-woman.

The scariest pests are definitely the bears. I don't much like them invading my personal space. When brazen bruins began busting down our bee hives to steal honey, that was the last straw. We kept moving the hives closer to our house until they were finally just outside the back door. Yet, the hungry bears were undaunted. They continued to mosey right up to the house. Each time I opened the door, I expected to find myself face to face with Smokey and his kinfolk.

I was also miffed because, now that the hives were so close, bees were entering the house as often as I did. Keep in mind that thousands of bees live in each hive. That's a lot of stingers. The female bees are the workers. While they're out collecting nectar all day, the male bees do nothing but hang around the hive watching TV, drinking beer, and scratching themselves. All those thousands of drones are brimming with testosterone and looking for a fight. These kings of sting are easily agitated and bored because they don't have much excitement in their lives. Their only entertainment is waiting for some unsuspecting victim to wander near so they can torment him. Okay, I know the rotten little buggers are necessary for pollination and all that, but I hate any critter that has a lethal weapon attached to its rear end. (I'm consoled, however, by the fact that they die immediately after stinging me.)

Cohabitation with angry, stinging bees doesn't bother the husband. His hide, like a thick-skinned bear's, is impenetrable. He doesn't mind being attacked by swarms of the ornery, little dive-bombing lancet launchers. He once received 200 stings in one day. Yet, he still actually likes these disgusting kamikaze bugs. He even catches wild ones (of the bumble variety) to show our grandson. "Go ahead," he tells Cobi, "Pick it up and pet it." This makes grandma faint.

The husband was reluctant to part with his beloved bees, but he wasn't willing to share their honey with mooching bears either. This created a dilemma.

Determined to live in a bee-free, bear-free home, I put my foot down. We discussed the options and then we compromised by doing things my way. We got rid of the bees, the hives, and the honey, which eliminated the bear problem. We learned to get by without honey; but knowing we were outwitted by dumb animals was tougher to live with.

The moral behind all this critter talk is this: Animals that don't fear people don't live long. I think it's safe to say that hunger is hazardous to their health.

This truth applies to humans too. Don't our appetites get us into trouble? I know I'm guilty of sometimes acting like a dumb animal. When I see something I want, I often throw caution to the wind and do foolish things. (For proof of this, check my closet.)

Cravings for clothes, cars, houses, power, money, sex, control, praise, or status can be hazardous to our health - - both physical and eternal life.

There's a Bible story of a man who, like a hungry bear, allowed his appetite to affect his judgment. Because he was hungry, Esau made the impulsive decision to forfeit his greatest possession.

Genesis 25:29-34:

When Jacob had cooked stew, Esau came in from the field . . . and Esau said to Jacob, "Please let me have a swallow of that red stuff there, for I am famished." But Jacob said, "First sell me your birthright" . . . so he . . . sold his birthright to Jacob. Then Jacob gave Esau bread and lentil stew, and he ate and drank.

All I can say is Esau must have been one hungry dude. Lentils wouldn't tempt me a bit. (Chocolate, however, is another story.) Esau was hungry enough to eat even legumes. He abandoned good sense for a bowl of beans, sacrificing his inheritance for instant gratification. I'm tempted to self-righteously say, "Way to go, bright guy!" But I shouldn't be too quick to judge, because I can be just as foolish.

Selfish desires and lack of self-control lead down a destructive path. Philippians 3:18-20 says, "Many walk . . . that are enemies of the cross of Christ, whose end is destruction, WHOSE GOD IS THEIR APPETITE, . . . who set their minds on earthly things."

Whoa! These are strong words. How can my appetites (desires) become my gods? Here's how: When I love or desire something more than God, I put it first in my life. I think about it more than I think about Him. What I crave ends up ruling my life like a god. Anything I place above the true God in my priorities will eventually consume me and lead to trouble.

God made me (and you) for better things. The natural vacuum in each heart was meant to be filled with a relationship. We try to fill that void with all the things life has to offer, but that doesn't work because we were not created to find satisfaction in worldly "stuff." Colossians 3:1 & 2 says, "Set your minds on things above." Only a relationship with God can fill the empty places within a heart.

©2006

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