Children

are mostly a joy, but there are those frightening moments

experienced in some version by every family that make you

wonder if you'll survive raising your children.

Our oldest

daughter had a freak bicycle accident at age 5 that

lacerated her liver and put her in ICU for over a week.

We lived through that. Another daughter slipped in the

bath tub and bit a hole in her tongue large enough to

place a Cheerio in. That was not pleasant, but we made it

through that one, also. And then my son came along.

Jonathan

had a bad digestive problem that stunted his early

development (you could never tell it now), and then had a

battle with croup at 13 months old. This was not

croupy-sounding cough, but THE CROUP that slammed him in

ICU, put him on the ventilator and caused serious

breathing problems during his early years. He has

outgrown most of this ailment.

But what he

likes to talk about are his series of

"accidents." For some warped reason he boasts

about these experiences as if they were a badge of honor.

"Daddy, tell them about my accidents," he

pleads when we get together with anybody who has not

heard his horror stories. He loves to see people's

reactions.

The most

recent escapade happened on a Sunday evening after church

not too ago. We met several couples at a local restaurant

to visit and enjoy dessert. My son tagged along, bored

and disappointed that he could not sit with his sisters

and their fellow youth group members at another table. He

was stuck with the adults. He finished his dessert, and

as we were visiting, he was playing with his root beer

bottle. The next thing I know, he is poking me in the arm

saying, "Thaddy, my thung is thuck."

I said,

"C'mon, Jonathan. Quit kidding." I really

didn't believe him at first, but I did notice that a root

beer bottle was hanging from his tongue.

He said,

"my thung is thuck." He wasn't kidding. He had rolled

his tongue and stuck it way down into the neck of the

root beer bottle and couldn't get it out.

Now, I was concerned, especially

when I realized he wasn't teasing, but it was quite

a sight. I've seen plenty of tongue rings these days, but

I've never seen anyone with a root beer bottle swinging

from his or her tongue. I began to laugh, the entire

table began to laugh, and the next thing I know, he's

laughing with that bottle bouncing back and forth at the

end of his tongue. I was afraid he was going to knock a

tooth out.

After one

attempt to pull the bottle from his tongue proved to be

somewhat painful, my wife "held his tongue" and

was somehow able to twist it away from the bottle.

Another close call. I was already imagining a trip to the

emergency room, some sort of saw, and a possible forked

tongue.

That's not

the first time Jonathan's been stuck. I was attending the

Southern Baptist Convention meeting in Indianapolis in

1991. While I was in meetings, my family was back at the

hotel. Waiting for the elevator door to open, my then

2-year-old son was leaning his hand on the closed door.

The elevator arrived, the door slid open and my son's

hand followed the door as it slid into the wall. Suddenly

he started screaming hysterically as he realized his hand

was stuck in the elevator door.

It was a

tense moment as guests realized what was going on and

watched in horror as my wife frantically tried to release

his hand from between the door and the wall. When the

door closed, fortunately the hand came out. He was sore,

hotel management was concerned, but after ice and a

couple of days, the hurt began to fade away.

Several

years later, my son and youngest daughter were chasing

each other through the house. He tripped and fell into

the corner of a wall. Big knot on his forehead, big dent

in the wall, and big headache. Fortunately, my next door

neighbor was in family practice. We called, and he came

over to check for concussion, etc.

The

interesting thing was, he asked Jonathan to tell him what

happened. After Jonathan told him the exact story I had

just told him, he asked Jonathan to take him upstairs to

show him the dent in the wall. They went upstairs, and

there was the dent. It turns out the knot lasted a few

days, but there was no other complications beside the

immediate headache. I realized later that the doctor was

checking out his neighbor's story to make sure I had not

knocked my son in the head. I guess you can't trust

anybody these days, even the preacher next door.

I could

continue with his near-drowning, the hoe-in-the-head

story, or the encounter with the shark. There's never a

dull moment, but maybe we'll make it as long as I keep

him away from root beer bottles.

The Rev.

Dr. David L. Chancey is pastor, McDonough Road Baptist

Church, Fayetteville.