Snippets, Fragments & Snapshots

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. 

Embracing the Fall

Sometimes chaos reigns.

Sometimes everything you had planned gets blown away in the winds of a hurricane you did not see coming.

Sometimes you reach for something familiar and realize that its been replaced by something new.

The feeling that you are tossed by the waves of life with no control over where you are going is quite unsettling. Those ideas you had, that plan, that security net disappears and you're left wondering where  God is in this mess. Why does it sometimes feel like I've been pushed off a cliff without a parachute?

Some things are explainable, but many are not.

So I am learning to embrace the fall. I will look for branches to catch me. I will wave my arms like a lunatic to see if I grow wings. But if neither shows up, that is ok too.

I will spread my arms, breath in the rushing wind, and thank the Lord for whatever shows up at the bottom.

After The Rain

After the rain there is a quiet, bright,
tangible newness about the world.
The lingering droplets that still fall from the sky
are a telltale sign of what has passed,
but the invigorated grass is proof
of what has already been made new.

My sneakers meet the pavement,
sending tiny sprays of water up my legs.
I breath in the cool, damp air,
my eyes scanning the now muddy fields.
Hiding under the eves of the porch,
I was not washed by the sky's tears,
but now I can be part of the bathed earth.

If only there were a heavenly rain
that could touch the soul;
clean old wounds of hurt,
wash off the dust of fear.
Then maybe, just maybe, we could walk
and not droop our shoulders
under the weight of what this life holds.

For now, I can only touch the wet ground,
see the reaching leaves, breathe the moist air.
And as I run, chasing after the clouds
that refreshed the earth, I imagine that
after the rain, there is a quiet, bright,
tangible newness about me.

An Invitation to Believe Better Things

I love people.

Everyone you love will, at some point, disappoint you.

That is one of the hardest truths for me to swallow.

I love people. Some may think "well yeah, you're an extrovert", but that's not what I'm talking about. I love people. My family and friends and mentors and kids I babysit. I tell people that I love them. Not just my parents and my boyfriend, but others that I am close to as well. Some find this weird. Some aren't sure how to handle it. But I tell them anyway, because some people don't hear it enough, and others hear it too much in meaningless ways.

I love people. And that gets me in trouble. Sometimes I try too hard to make them happy. I wear myself down, suffocating in my own worries and pain and questions that I leave unsaid in favor of listening to others. Sometimes I become so enthralled with the beauty of another's soul that I become blind to the inevitable flaws it has. I defend and justify furiously when I should really accept them as humans, who are as imperfect as I am, and allow them space to heal.

I love people. And they disappoint me, just as should be expected - not in a cynical, jaded way, but in an "you are human, and I recognize that" way. Sometimes my love clouds my vision, and I forget that they are more than the perfectly formed robot I have subconsciously imagined they are. Sometimes I am the sole reason for my disappointment.

I love people. And I won't apologize for it. It looks crazy. It hurts every now and then. But I will keep loving. Because you are a beautiful child of God, and you are worth it all, regardless of the pain that may come from it.

You are worth all the love I can give and much, much more.

The Things We Miss

Food. Unlimited access to a cafeteria open twelve hours a day, $100 at a snack counter, and piles of sweets from care packages - but I still wish I could open up a fridge and heat up leftovers. I miss home cooked food, challenging food, umami food, real food.

Math. I prepared for college math, and let out a whoop of excitement when I found out my requirement was filled without taking any classes. After two semesters of high school calculus and a grueling AP test, you'd think I'd have had my fill. Nope. I miss math. I'm resigned to living vicariously through my math major friend.

Church. You can tell my situation is unusual as soon as you find out that I did not attend church with my parents after 10th grade. The search for my own community lead me to my own congregation, one that I attended joyfully and that helped me to grow. Leaving it was hard. Searching for a replacement at my new home was harder. Realizing that I'm never going to find one like it is really hard.

Trust. This is the most difficult in recent months. Don't get me wrong, I've made some wonderful friendships here at college, ones that I am confident will last for quite some time. Still, the fast connection that comes from unlimited time together and new experiences in common cannot replace the solidity of years spent walking together. The trust will come, that I am confident in. It just takes time, and that leaves me at least two hours away from trust, for now.

I am thankful that I miss these things. I am glad that I will always remember why knowing how to cook well is important. I am grateful for a well-rounded education that made me love more disciplines than I can study. I am happy for the time I had to be nurtured in a loving church family. I am overjoyed for the trusts I have, and those that are being built.

I am thankful that I have been given the gift of distance, so that I can look back and realize value of what I love.

Shattered

I am broken.

You are broken.

We are all broken.

But who will admit it first?

We build elaborate facades to cover and explain the cracks. We stuff, we bury, don't tell, we do anything to keep the intricate secret that we don't have it all together. No, I'm not depressed, I don't need help, I don't have anxiety, I don't deal with a rough past, I'm not confused or disappointed or afraid, I don't cry, I don't feel. 

Somewhere in the wall of nice outfits, fake smiles, and good grades we lose our humanity. Because let's be real, despite each of our panicked attempts to hide it, we are all broken. We all have demons lurking in the shadows. Life is hard. There are so many jagged edges, dark woods, and patches of quicksand that none of us makes it through unscathed. We all know that.

But we still are scared out of our minds that someone will find out....what? That we are just like everyone else?

And it doesn't just hurt us, it makes it that much harder for anyone else to own up to their struggles. Oh no! I'm the only one who hasn't gotten it right, what is wrong with me?! Facing demons is hard. Facing them alone is nearly impossible.

So this is what I ask: When someone tells you about their demons, don't put on a mask of sympathy. Don't swallow your own scars. Don't try to fix it all. Instead, just...

...break.

Because being broken alone only leads to pain - but being broken together leads to healing.