Bee Stings

My parents were always active in their church.  One of the things they did was work with adolescents and teens who came to church.  The kids were in a group called “CYC”, which stood for Christian Youth Crusaders.  In some ways it was modeled after the scouts, kids wore uniforms which included scarves around their necks like boy scouts, and hats like boy scouts, but the colors were different.  These uniforms were a white shirt, blue jeans or black slacks, or skirt if you were a girl and a colored scarf around your neck with a little cylinder to keep the ends together.

The groups would have lessons from the Bible, but would also work on badges and then have a recreation and snack time.  Once, the group came to our house for some recreational activities.  There were about 20 or so boys and girls playing in our yard and having a really good time.

I was too young to be an official part of the group, but since my parents were leading it, and it was held at our house, I was allowed a little participation.  I decided to lead the kids in a game of “Follow the Leader”.  The rules are simple enough, follow the leader.  Wherever I would go, they would go.

I led them around the yard and into some tall grass, down a path that had been walked many times before by the looks of it.  Twenty boys and girls following single file, chattering and laughing, everyone having a good time following the little boy at the head of the line.

Then for some reason they started running and breaking rank.  Boys and girls waving their hands wildly and screaming and crying.  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of all the commotion.  Most of them headed for our house and ran inside.  I followed, hoping to find out what was going on.

Inside our living room were boys in their underwear and adults looking them over very carefully.  It was all very exciting, yet curious to see nearly naked kids in our house.  Kids that went to our church and normally wouldn’t be seen in such a state of undress.

Finally I learned what had happened.  As I led the kids through the tall grass, someone (perhaps me) stirred up a bee’s nest that was in or on the ground and most of the kids got stung.  I didn’t even see a bee, so I felt fortunate because by the way the kids were behaving, bee stings seemed to be not too much fun and maybe a little painful.

Several years later I found out how traumatic a first bee sting can be.  I was playing outside with my good friend and neighbor, Danny.  I had one of those toys where you pull on something and a little helicopter propeller looking piece of plastic flies into the air.  Danny and I were chasing one of these as it came to the ground.  I ran faster and got to it first.  I was so proud that I beat Danny to the toy.  I couldn’t wait to send it into the air again.

As I reached down to pick up the little propeller I felt sharp, hot, fire go through one of my fingers.  I cried out in pain and dropped the propeller.  My father scooped me up, looked at my finger and rushed me into the kitchen, putting my hand under cold water.  I looked at my finger and cried even louder because it looked like the inside of my finger was exposed.  My father explained that I had been stung by a honey bee and what I was seeing was the part of the bee and stinger that were in my finger.  Somehow I don’t think that made me feel much better.  That’s when I learned that honey bees die if they sting someone.  At least I had that to comfort me.