Once again, I find myself nearing the end of another wonderful summer at Camp Hebron. And once again, I have no idea how to convey all the life that has been packed into just a few weeks. So here are some snippets, fragments and snapshots from summer 2014:
"Mousetraps. He wants us to play with mousetraps. This man is insane." Such was my inner monologue as we passed said trap around the seated circle. But somewhere between throwing and catching the finger-snapping contraption of wood and wire and figuring out how five of us could set one without using our hands, I began to smile. "This is genius!" Not using a shoe, pencil and multitool to maneuver the catch, but using random objects and objectives to make people think, to get them outside of their protective bubble, to help them grow together. They call it experiential education, and it's what I'll be doing this summer: teaching through experience. Camping out, climbing, canoeing, playing marbles, squirting each other with shaving cream - I will use all of this and much more to reach out to young souls and whisper to them again and again. "You are precious. You are powerful. You are loved."
. . .
The last strains of the guitar fade, and I take my seat on the carpeted floor. It's time for vespers, and I look to the stage as the pastor comes forward. One of my campers begins to scoot towards me, easing into my lap. A soft smile tugs at my lips as she leans back in to me. Touch. That's what she's thirsty for. This is proven throughout the week as she holds my hand while we walk or leans into me as we wait in line. We are so often focused on obvious needs - food, shelter, education - that we sometimes forget the most simple ones. Each one of us needs touch, to reach out and know that we are not alone on this journey called life.
. . .
A sigh slips out of my mouth as her shoe slips off the rock once again, for what seems like the hundredth time. "Do you want to hang for a bit and rest?" I ask, stepping forward so as not to be yanked by the belay rope tied to my harness. She surveys the rock face that she has been trying to climb for the past forty five minutes. Each time that she rests at the bottom, she eyes the rock with a fierce determination. "Hey, what size shoes do you wear?", I call out to another counselor who is at the bottom with me. A few minutes later, the camper has shed her cursedly smooth basketball shoes for a pair of slightly large sneakers, and is once again facing the climb. A single slip of her foot, and she is up! And up she continues, steadily, all the way to the top where my sister greets her with a high five. Sometimes all we need is the right equipment.
. . .
Giggles turn to snorts as we try to stifle our laughter so as not to wake my sleeping campers. Two fellow staff have joined me on my cabin porch to debrief the day and enjoy some snacks. Our topics stray from camp life to college to relationships to chocolate preferences as the night goes on. I finally crawl into bed around 1am, still smiling. I have to be awake in five hours, but I am convinced that sleep is not the only refreshment that the body needs, and that good conversation fills the soul like nothing else.
. . .
"Crap. It's Friday." The thought creeps into my mind as I get dressed. My campers stumble around me, sleepy eyes still half closed. It's been a crazy week, as Ultimate Adventure always is. They've hiked, caved, canoed and climbed....but have they been loved? Did they share all their stories? Was it a space for them to be safe, to be themselves? These doubts linger in my mind as I move through the day, and become especially intense as we head down the hill to the closing program. We sit through songs, a few impromptu chants, and some rehearsed lines of thanks to parents and instructions for luggage pick-up before I hug my girls and send them off. I'm chatting with a fellow counselor when I hear one of my girls behind me. I turn, assuming she wants a picture or lost her bag or something, but instead I see tears on her cheeks. "I don't want to go home", she says, at once smiling and crying. Impacting kids isn't about what I feel, it's about opening myself, pouring out, and trusting God to do the rest.
. . .
As the end of the thunderclap rolls through the air, a whistle blow clears everyone out of the pool. We lifeguards settle smugly into our armchairs, free to soak in the last bit of sunlight before the storm hits. And hit it does, with a swift vengeance that sends us scrambling to grab the hammocks before crowding into the tiny guard shack. We swat flies and peer out the tiny windows, gasping at each crack above our heads, even watching zig zags of lightning touch the ground nearby. As the rumblings move farther and farther away, we are drawn out into the puddles and streams made by the downpour. We meet up with fellow staff and, amidst whoops and laughter, set about thoroughly enjoying the beautiful rain in jumps, slides, tackles and splashes. Joy. Pure joy. That's what these puddles are made of. We may as well have been given pools of gold.
