Sting Like A Bee

Mom did a lot of little things to make our cramped quarters more livable.  One was to acquire a wooden picnic table and benches which sat outside on the patio.  Occasionally on warmer days, we would eat dinner there.  One balmy afternoon, I was sitting at that picnic table, absorbed with one of my 'vroom' toys, either a small metal car or a small metal airplane.  You will recall that I swore off plastic airplanes after a bad experience. 

In the impatience of adulthood, I forget how easily a child slips into the world of play, to a place and time that is quite imaginary and yet so real.  My children often remind me what a strong external stimuli is required to break into that other place.  I was somewhere that long ago day.  Not at a simple wooden table outside of a tiny trailer.  

I was yanked back to reality by a sharp pain in my hand, the one not occupied in propelling my toy.  I looked over in time to see a bee buzz away, leaving a throbbing poison sac at the end of the stinger plunged into my skin.  I was stunned.  First, by the injustice of being assaulted by a bee when I had done nothing to provoke it.  (Children DO have a strong sense of justice, after all).  Second, by the burning sensation that was rapidly spreading through my hand.  I did the only thing a sensible child would do: I began howling for Mom and ran into the house to find her.  She carefully removed the stinger while I scarcely was able to watch.  Mom kept me within eye-shot for awhile to look for any signs of truly dangerous allergic reactions.  But other than my hand swelling and developing a few purplish-red blotches on my skin that faded after a few days, I was no worse for the experience.  I gained a new respect for bees and still marvel at beekeepers surrounded by swarms of bees, seriously doubting their good judgement.  The 'Killer Bee' invasion had me worried for years. 

The bee sting was one of many maladies in the years of childhood which sent me to Mom.  As time went on, I discovered that in this big world there were limits to Mom's ability to fix things.  She couldn't always make it better.  But there were and are no limits to her compassion, or her faith in the Creator of this big world.  And when I need prayer, I make sure to let her know.