Two weeks ago I sat in the church amphitheater, the lights were dim, small bodies rustled quietly, speakers intoned the words of the Christmas story in spotlit pools of light. I remember the glow of a multicolored tinsel garland strung a few feet from me catching the light in the dark in sparkling shards. It would have been beautiful, but I felt empty. In all truth I felt empty and honestly done with the Christmas season.
Just done.
I blamed it on the commercialism - living in a world where decorations and holiday goods were placed on store shelves before Halloween.
I blamed it on an overwhelming to do list that filled most spare time from the weeks before Thanksgiving to those that continued to stretch before me.
I blamed it on the stress of a job transition that was leaving me emotionally drained.
I blamed it on a pace of life that I knew was not sustainable.
I blamed it on a sense of loss, a sense that things had changed just a little too much from what I knew of Christmas as a child
And there were grains of truth in that blame game.
But even looking for a reason felt a little futile.
And then I took a moment to listen to the words "Mary brought forth her son. . . " and I fell into the story for a moment.
Mary
waiting more than a few months,
waiting nine.
The wise men
preparing and traveling,
possibly for years.
The nation
waiting for Messiah,
for centuries.
Perhaps this feeling of a holiday dragging on too long was a tiny taste of the waiting in the real story.
"Come thou long awaited. . . ."
It was a big picture prophecy that took on the weighty cloak of ancient. A desire so long ingrained that it held the trappings of epic. Something beyond one life, beyond one era, beyond one nation.
And then when he did come it sure didn't look like what was expected.
My own expectations of a Christmas similar to those of my childhood are going to be lost in this changing society. Christmas isn't a day to be celebrated now, but a holiday season. A season full of parties and celebrations that each bring an increasing sense of business and things that need to get done. And make no mistake, there will be a challenge there to continually dig out the real meaning, to set aside time for what is important. But I need to stop mourning the simpler time and focus on that challenge, because what I think Christmas should be like, is like what the Jewish nation thought the Messiah would be like. They both comprise of expectations that are simply too small and too far from what God brought about.
If God could bring the Savior to earth in the most unexpectedly humble way, he has the ability to take a holiday whose structure is continually changing, traditions that start and fall to the side by the host, and he can seed it with meaning. Because he is bigger than all of our structures. He is unexpected and unfathomable.
He sent a glittering army of angelic beings to tired, stressed shepherds, the blue collar working class of the day, and scholarly astronomers to Herod's doorstep to ask for directions.
"'Come into my parlor', said the spider to the fly."
Maybe the Christmas story reflects a lot of things we don't always think about.
waiting
awkwardness
broken expectations
fear
grief over the slaughter of innocents
and yet it in all of this,
that humble baby was the arrival of the Prince of Peace
He brought hope, not the hope that was expected, but something deeper.
Not a simple conquering king to overthrow the Roman government,
But a man to overthrow death itself.
Done with the holiday?
Tired of waiting,
Stressed,
Overburdened,
Fearful,
Grieving,
In pain,
that's OK,
because this story resonates with all of that.
Sometimes it is the empty times, the tired and drained and fearful times, the path of grief times where God touches us the most.
Some years I resonate most with the shepherds in the fields, other years the wise men. This year I am seeing those in the story who had to wait and it is an odd comfort.
So God help me not to pack up the Christmas tree on Christmas day as soon as the packages are opened. Help me not to start on that "how I need to change list" for the New Year. Help me to rest a bit, and wait a bit, and really think about the real people in this real history, who had real feelings and thoughts, and help me be just a bit more in awe at your place in that story,
and in this one.
There isn't an artist out there that doesn't derive a certain sense of satisfaction out of positive reactions to their work. For some of us we struggle to keep that satisfaction in place bounded up with humility. But I also feel that if it is kept in check that there is a "rightness" to it.
I guess some of that goes along with my concept that we are a creative people because God is creative and he made us in his image. I think that sense of satisfaction might be God's way of telling us that he might feel some certain mirrored feeling when we stop to admire his creations. That he feels pleasure when we derive joy from what he has made, and that he has intentionally created so much for us. Not just the trees and sunsets of nature but the story lines of history and life. I think he is well- pleased when we take a step back and allow ourselves to be awestruck by his unfathomable talent.
This musing brought to you by my own paler versions of the feeling. Today I had a moment where one of my creations elicited a response, a special response, one that I will long remember and be satisfied with.
You hear a lot of the same things when you are an artist. "Wow!" "I could never do that." "You are amazing." etc. and there is pleasure in that. But some reactions don't leave you readily. For instance one of the first times I brought a decorated cake into summer camp - to give to the staff there, it was a small cake, decorated to look like a wheel of swiss cheese with a tiny mouse that was standing on the cheese dressed like Indiana Jones. He had his tail curled up instead of a whip. I had fun with the cake, and it matched the camp theme.
I had meant to drop it quietly off at the office during morning extended care. I got out the door before the "alarm" was raised. But was in the lobby as excited 20 somethings and teen staff started making a bee-line for the office. I will never forget their exuberant enthusiasm. I stayed and watched. They didn't know me, or that I had made the cake. I watched the camp director get called on a walkie generally reserved for emergencies. I watched the laughter and the pointing out of the details like the hat and the coiled tail. The camp director would later show the entire camp the cake in general assembly.
I learned that summer that it is hard to beat the appreciation of hungry young adults who generally don't eat breakfast and who do not have to count their calories. I learned that when you can tailor something to match a theme or personalities - that it makes things even better. I learned that being able to give people joy is a force that drives me so much more than personal pride in what I make - and I am glad that it does, because I have to fight to keep that pride in check some days.
Today's reaction was something incredibly sweet. I work in a room full of some of the most special people that God has handcrafted. I work with students who have multiple handicaps. It is a room for the severely disabled, and it is populated by children who will teach you lessons so big that you cannot articulate them.
It is also populated by some of the most caring individuals I have ever met - special education aides. One of our caregivers had her last day today, as she will be out of the room through the holidays for some surgery. We wanted to celebrate Christmas and Get Well all at once and the idea came up to make a cake that looked like the board game Operation. (Humor is a finely honed survival skill in this room.) And so I made a cake that represented the likeness. I was pleased with the result and looking forward to my coworkers reactions.
I hadn't counted on reactions from my students. Freddy* (name changed) has severe autism. He has limited words and food is not something he enjoys, at all. He stays away from it unless it comes prepackaged, and even there his hyper senses allow him to notice changes in the composition of ingredients that the rest of us would never notice. Freddy avoids any food brought in.
Jake* rarely pays attention to it, and when he does it is mostly to try and get a reaction out of the adults in the room. To garner negative attention. His defiant behaviors surface if asked if he would like some. He blares out a growl and swipes his hand in the air in dismissal. If pressed he'll shove food away with sometimes disastrous results.
So today I saw my coworker grinning at the cake. On one side of her Freddy was standing raptly making fluttering hand motions over the cake. He would mime pressing the nose and putting his fingers together like tweezers. Since this type of recognition is rare, it was something celebratory for all of us. Evidently Freddy has played Operation, and it made a big impression on him.
Jake stood on the other side, behaving for once instead of shoving or shouting, looking at the cake too, and when my co-worker offered him some he said OK. And it floored us. For me, it was absolutely one of the best reactions I've ever had to a cake that I've made, and it will be something that I treasure.
One nonverbal reaction that many might pass by, not knowing or understanding the significance, and another "OK" might not seem like much, yet I felt the same sense of joy today as I did with a camp full of hungry young adults. And just two students made that happen. Two very special people.
And I sit here and in my musings I thank God for them. It is easy to ask "why, why God?" so many days "why did this have to be this way?" "why couldn't you change it?" "why not do a miracle, and make them better?"
And I don't know why, to be honest.
And there is heartbreak here, sometimes daily.
But there is joy too, and it is joy unparalleled and sometimes unexplainable to the outside world. So I don't know if you are reading this and you will understand, but if you do I hope that I can throw a taste of that joy over to you.
There is joy in blowing balloons up.
There is joy in slamming the covers of a book together and feeling the breeze on your face.
There is joy in toys (especially noisy ones, and new ones, and new noisy ones are the absolute best).
There is joy in TV time and music and drums and sensory bins, and floor puzzles and running fast.
And some days there is joy in something unexpected - like cake.
Yes there is heartbreak here, but Christmas joy comes almost just as often.
So I feel like I've had a chance to see one of God's most fragile and beautiful works. And I doubt it will stop me from asking why, but today, today I will say "OK" and be thankful for the God who is bigger than I am and who creates masterpieces out of what we consider those who are broken and outcast.
So take a breath and look around yourself, you need to see His gallery sometime.
One of my favorite holiday books is The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. I love the culture clash that takes place between the wild untamed Herdmans and the church folk. Most of all I love what everyone learns from each other at the end of the book. Maybe because the characters in the book are willing to learn and grow. The Herdman's are definitely changed by the experience, but several in the church also find their own hearts "growing three sizes larger" (to quote another well loved classic).
I'm in the middle of quite a different holiday right now. Tonight was our community Trick or Treat and this coming week will be filled with dress up parties and trappings of a much more secular festival. I have a touch of hesitancy still admitting it, but I love Halloween. I love the fall weather, the changing colors, the sense of winter coming and I certainly like the candy more than I should.
There is a sense of the neighborhood all coming out together as parents fill suburban streets with their children. Teens and those who've seen their children grow past the age of wearing batman suits and princess dresses man the doorways with bowls full of treats. People are genuinely pleased to see their neighborhood children on their doorsteps asking for handouts.
Most of all I love the opportunity to make costumes. The thrill of getting to pick out what or whom you want to be. My favorites are always the homemade ones. The ones that go off the beaten path. The ones that take the familiar in a new direction. Halloween seems to brim with creativity, between pumpkin carving and dress up.
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A long time ago I wore the costumes. In particular I remember one that my parents both worked on. I wanted to be an astronaut, so my mom sewed a silver grey jumpsuit, and my dad took a paint can and an old car antenna to his shop and came back with a space helmet. A chunky cassette player strapped to my chest playing "space sounds" recorded from a National Geographic LP completed the ensemble with a pair of moon boots (what we called snow boots at the time).
I still remember the awesome sound that antennae made as I walked through doors and it didn't quite make it through, flexibly sliding underneath to shoot back and forth on top of my head for the next few seconds. The paint can amplified the sound and I wanted to walk through every door I could.
It was an age before costumes with sound effects, so trick or treating took on a new life that year. And our favorite next door neighbor had made homemade popcorn balls. Orange, popcorn balls. They were amazing.
Then we moved.
To a different community.
A community that had a much more limited selection of churches to choose from. A meeting of those of like faith had been a foundational part of our lives and we had expected that to continue. My parents had even scoped out the local church that we would join when we moved. The things that really counted were there. The doctrines that we held were very similar. But the flavor was quite different from what we were used to.
To say it simply, "conservativeness" took on a life of it's own at this new church. No going to movie theaters, though the local video rental store was ok for some fuzzy logic that I was grateful for. And Halloween, well, Halloween was the devil's holiday. Great lengths were taken to explain the pagan roots to us children and the reasons why we should not celebrate or carve pumpkins. No one was to pass out candy, though if you wanted to wrap tracts in cellophane to look like candy and pass them out, that was looked on well enough.
The year we came, the church deacons decided that perhaps we should have a church social, a potluck dinner and the children in the church could come dressed as Bible characters. It was a well intentioned gesture, and I have no doubt looking back that some were indeed sympathetic to the younger crowd. Support also came from older church members whose colorful cellophane tracts were causing the neighbors to skip their houses. Bringing a dish to pass would be easier than hours spent trying to disguise salvation as candy.
I have no doubt that they envisioned happy crowds of young children running about the church basement dressed as shepherds and angels. But there was a problem.
And that problem was us, well, me - to be exact.
I still didn't quite grasp the rules at this new church, and my parents had taken the time to teach me the Bible, so I knew it tolerably by the time I was eleven. Too well for what the leaders had envisioned. I remember my mom getting very quiet as I tried to convince the neighbor boy to come with us. He was worried that he didn't have a "Bible" costume.
"Oh, that's OK - pretty much anything scary is in the Bible. You know Ezekiel has skeletons, and there's the witch of Endor, the ghost of Samuel - going as the grim reaper, that works, we'll just call you the 10th plague, a mummy - you can be a leper. And if you want to be a monster, Revelation is filled with them. Headless horseman - you can be Goliath. All those are in the Bible and lots more!"
I was so excited, and I thought at the time that my mother's quiet was because she was worried about how our neighbor might behave, he was a rambunctious boy and we all had gotten into trouble with some of the things we'd thought would be fun. I really hadn't understood the grown up tensions she must have been facing.
In the end, we'd talked Allan and his sister into coming with us. It took a little stretching to explain that his Darth Vader was the first day of creation when God separated the dark from the light and that Princess Leia was really an angel (Star Wars was unhappily classified as New Age and thus right up there with cults). There were plenty of frowns abounding and the awkward uncomfortableness of it all was something that even us children felt.
My own attempt at a cherubim with scary eyes every where and smoke and fire (thank you Madeline L'engle) was also not well received. And feeling that I needed to defend the choices we had made, I stood in the middle of that basement floor and spouted out the same line of reasoning and logic that I had used in trying to get Allan to come with me. No - I was not a shy child. And I felt a sense of injustice so it got addressed. Addressed with a hundred marker eyes staring accusingly out at my audience between grey painted fluffs of cotton smoke.
I took it that the resulting silence meant I had won the argument, and in particular, one older gentleman with a twinkle in his eye came up to me after things got back underway and shook my hand, "I like you." he whispered haltingly due to a stroke that had paralyzed part of his face. We grinned at each other, my grin filled with taffy and his lopsided. Mr. Vern and I would be good friends from that day forward.
I hadn't really won.
The next year the Halloween Bible Party would return, but there would be a list of rules about what would be acceptable and what would not, no scary costumes allowed. And Allan, though he loved the apple crisp that the church pianist had made, would never come back to church with us.
Me, I learned creative ways to tread the lines that the rules had made. The next year my sister and I came as two foxes that Sampson had tied the tails together and lit on fire. The cute ears and fluffy tails got smiles that disappeared as we screamed and acted out what it might have looked like to have two foxes on fire yelping and running through the fields (sorry mom).
Another year I would come as the statue from Daniels dream - gold and silver spray paint were awful fun to use, and tramping muddy boots all over as part of the costume had a small rebellious sense of satisfaction in it, though that was alleviated during my time on the clean-up crew afterwards.
There is a part of me that would like to rewrite those years similar to Ms. Robinson's epic tale. I was no Imogene Herdman. Though I envy her her impact on that small church. Still, looking back I sense some similarities. My mother bears a strong resemblance to the mom in the book who insisted that the Herdman's be offered roles in the play and then put up with all of the shenanigans that followed. My mom gently guided us in the years after that first one, allowing us enough creativity, and offering options when we thought that going as a plague of boils might be a good idea. She was supportive of us and helped us navigate the new rules at the church while at the same time instilling in us the concept that the Halloween we had celebrated innocently before was not wrong. That we could go forward respectfully at this new place and still retain our own discernment and decisions, even if they might be quietly held decisions.
Mr. Vern and his wife Dora would become a big part of my life. In looking back there was no really huge thing other than that grin that encouraged me and the pocket full of candy that he always had for us children on Sundays. They were saints who understood that kids were loud and ran around and sometimes said unexpectedly awkward things.
Unexpectedly awkward things while dressed as a cherubim shedding cotton batting in the middle of a church basement. Ah the clarity I had on my beliefs at that moment in time.
Things have gotten less clear for me as an adult. I still don't know where all the lines are. I try to respect those who see the danger in the roots of the holiday, and honor their wishes to remain apart from the celebrations, at the same time my own family has dove right into the creativity and fun that is fairly unconnected with anything other than American commercialism. And yes, I understand that there are dangers in that too. Yet there are also dangers in separatism - so trying to find a balance.
I think I look at the issue in light of one of my favorite Disney movies - Polyanna. "When you look for the bad, you will find it." With the rebound idea that if you start looking for the good and find it - you should consider joining in when you can,
because there will still be all too many places where you can't. Where you have to draw lines and stay away.
For me I will bask in a neighborhood night out. A celebration of family and children and creativity. And behind some of the harder things faced I will remember the twinkle in Mr. Verns eye and my mother's quiet support, and the best astronaut costume ever.
For we are not bold to class or compare ourselves with some of those who commend themselves; but when they measure themselves by themselves and compare themselves with themselves, they are without understanding. 2 Corinthians 10:12
It happens, all the time. In fact a lot of our days are spent mentally ranking each other in the context of occupations. There's the "whose job is more important" angle, "who has the hardest job", or "who is working the best". They flit through our heads and some days they land and build nests.
I am so guilty myself of these comparisons. And to be honest some of the thought processes are not fully bad. It's good to be aware of which co-worker has changed more diapers during the day or dealt with a particularly nasty one, so that you can step in and carry your weight or provide a touch of relief.
But in my world where voiced opinion seems to fall on two totally different ends of the spectrum, from the idea that I am a glorified babysitter, to the comments that head into "I don't know how you do it - that job takes a special person."territory (Truth is, both of these are comments entrenched in a code of rank. This idea that watching children is a job fit only for young teens with little life or job experience, and the concept that my work is only suitable to certain personality types. ) I find myself often caught up in the chaos of trying to figure out where I fit in the grand scheme of things.
And I don't. I don't fit that is.
Slowly, as I am gaining understanding in watching people I am trying to move out of trying to fit. Out of trying to pull myself up over the heads of others by emphasizing my caring nature, or how hard my job is on some days. I am slowly trying to leave the rank climbing and worrying about whether or not I am understood by others.
I am trying to find contentment in being a person, not a job.
It's true. There are jobs that we are suited for more than others. But it is also true that even the job with the best fit is still exactly that - a job. Teachers who view their work with students as a calling, still have to put up with the politics, and the unending pressures that continually pull "calling" back into "work". Missionaries, pastors, those who feel chosen for a ministry will, if they are honest, admit that the place they are in is still an uphill battle most of the time. A factory worker who has a simplistic repetitive job with a good paycheck will tell you in a heart beat about the difficulties of conquering boredom and mental fatigue.
Having children has helped. Because I have a High School student for the first time. Her life this last month has been full of talk about occupational paths and finding the skill seminars that fits "what direction she wants to take in life". And I am realizing swiftly that equating an occupational direction with "life" is just another lie that the world tells us.
While there is some fun in asking elementary students what they want to be when they grow up, there are the jobs that never get mentioned: garbage collector, factory line worker, yard service, grocery store clerk. And yet these positions are not less important than the firefighters, soldiers, and teachers of tomorrow. Yes, some occupations exact a higher price than others. And I believe we should honor that. But that price still has little to say about who we really are.
Our worth in front of God is priceless, each and every one of us. Unfortunately, I spend far less time contemplating that truth and what it means than I do worrying about my occupational future. And it needs to change. I don't need to worry so much about pleasing the boss, but about pleasing the one who made me. Sounds simple and preachy. But there is some truth behind all of the cliche. And it is a truth I need.
So today as I go to work my goal isn't to be the best special needs aide that I can be, but to please the creator and look around in awe at all the others he has created too, no matter their occupation in this life. To be able to see them as priceless as my own self. It gives life an equality that feels right somehow. It imparts worth unequivocally. Even my students, many who will never function in society at a level where they are capable of fulfilling a job have this worth. And it is an amazing, mind blowing thing. Something that makes me smile as I head off to the daily grind instead of dreading it.
I struggle with change. Transitions come with anxiety.
And unfortunately I've passed some of that anxiety on. When I look at my oldest who for the past two days has been trying her best to hold back tears, whose voice pipes up occasionally "Mom I'm taking the dog for a walk." And I know. I know because it's the fifth walk today for the dog.
To be honest the unreasonable fears that she is grappling with - things like the idea that everyone will change over the summer into mean kids who will bully her, are seated right next to the undeniably normal fears like getting lost at a new building and not being able to get your locker open. And no, it hasn't helped that school construction has kept the building locked until the first day. No walk throughs, no way to settle some of the normal fears.
My youngest fears a year without her best friend in her class. My middle is already wondering who she will get as a team for future cities competition, since last year we had a disastrous crash and burn learning experience - both of us mother and daughter (I will never again work on a science project for my kids.)
And me, I am anxious about a new schedule. Care for our classroom has been cut, and that is always a concern, but I worry over safety and sanity with one less aide, one less set of eyes, one less mental check in a room that was demanding before the cuts. For the first time I am glad that my own hours have been reduced, because I don't know if I'd want more time under these circumstances.
Worries are hitting in waves around here.
And I know that after today 80% of them will be alleviated.
Just by simply surviving the day.
It is a human tendency to see those waves as much larger and more powerful than they really are. To forget who holds the oceans in his hands, and controls everything from national policy and the movement of armies to how many strands of grey hair I have covered up with dye. He knows the secret and unseen and the things so big they cannot be hidden.
I'll try to remember that as this morning inches painfully forward, slowly as I say goodbye to one child after another. Three different bus schedules this year. A long drawn out process of goodbye, and there is a small part of me that yearns for a simpler time when we got three backpacks ready to go at once and marched down the sidewalk together.
Now they have started to outgrow my presence at the corner bus stop. And that can bring down a whole new avalanche of worries: Am I preparing them enough? Am I hovering too close, or not close enough. Will they make it down the road, or will life chew them up and spit them out.
Sometimes I wonder if I could sum up motherhood with just one word, what that word would be.
Regret
Sacrifice
Joy
or today's word - Worry
There are a lot of verses on this this, quickly typed, snatched out of context with a search engine, but even with the lack of context there is a common theme: you don't need to worry kid, God has it covered. He'll give you strength when you ask for it, focus when you come humbly. He'll help set up guards around your thoughts - if you let him. If you let him, he'll give you peace. Tell him your worries, he can help.
It's not like he didn't know about them, so it isn't like you can hide your fear of the waves. But you can focus on him.
No it isn't going to be easy. Peter proved that. The sheer number of verses addressing the topic of anxiety should point to the fact that this is going to be a struggle. And it is OK to struggle. Just know that when you're sinking in the waves that he is still there waiting and willing to pull you out.
So frail, axiety ridden self - you have a self directed sermonette today. Whatchya gonna do with it?
Maybe, because I'm in that place of nostalgia, I'll sing this song to myself today.
Besides, it's always a tension breaker to have a song in your head sung by a Frankenstein celery from Toledo. :)
Camp is wrapped up for the year. Yet I find that it continues to impact my thinking. As we watch the Lego Movie uninterrupted with grandma in the quiet of our living room, I realized that "my kids" at camp were not Emmet, Wildstyle, Vitruvius or Unikitty. "My kids" were Batman, Badcop, and Benny with the possibility of a future Lord Business or Metalbeard thrown into the mix.
The lego movie would have been pretty bland without those totally unique personalities, and camp was no different. My last day I turned a corner to see two of "my kids" in tow of an unsmiling leader. Face paint was smeared across one and the other had the I'm-in-trouble-face set. We had to scrub the remnants of a Raphael paint job off of to see if there was swelling or bruising from being hit brass knuckles style by a hot wheels car wielded by the other.
The victory was that Raphael hadn't hit back. A little guy who has struggled all summer with anger management, and when I asked him how he had responded he sniffled back that he told the teacher. The leader nodded and a little part of me rejoiced that through the red and green tears he had held back the swinging fists.
But for every victory there is a set-back. As I asked the other camper what had happened the story started out "I hit him because it isn't fair that he has a cool face paint and I don't." Ouch. It also turns out that behind the jealousy there was annoyance at play styles with the cars, and after one encroachment too many that jealousy poured out in a violent way.
So we talked. We talked about how it isn't right to hit. We talked about patiently waiting for things (that includes your turn for face paint). And when I asked if he thought he could do that, I saw a head nod. I didn't expect more. But it was enough for me on that last Friday. So I had them sit there and I went and got my brushes and the last remnants of green facepaint.
When I sat down, I did two little faces instead of one. "Can I be Leonardo this time, he has a cool sword." "Yup" I answer reaching for blue instead of red. "Oh, he's my favorite too!" I see eyes widen. In the end I have two Leonardo's walking back to the room talking about blue being their favorite color and how cool it would be to have swords at camp.
Please no - hotwheels are dangerous enough, I think,
but I think it with a smile.
I miss my noodle-whacking, time-out-sitting crew a lot right now. But just as they added the variety to camp to keep it hopping, the quiet time now is needed in preparation for the next season of life. Seasons are real, they are good. For some reason God knows we need them. I may not want to be here right now in the change-over process, trying to think about school supply lists and figuring out calendars and start dates and open houses, but I need to be.
Seasons are so much easier when you embrace them instead of fighting them. I cannot turn the clock backwards or add months to the summer, so I need to look for the good in the next season. A season right now of both rest and transition. I need to allow myself the rest and I need to prepare for transition. Sometimes it is simply a matter of learning to wait - something I have never been incredibly good at.
Let's face it - there is very little waiting at camp.
High energy, high volume.
It exuded action and fun.
But I cannot do that all of the time, nor could our little ones.
School & structure may not be as enticing as the camp season. But it is needed.
There is good in change,
growth in change,
God is in change.
God is in control of our changing seasons.
A Time for Everything 1There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: 2a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, 3a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, 4a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, 5a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, 6a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, 7a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, 8a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace. 9What do workers gain from their toil?10I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race.11He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yetano one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.12I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live.13That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God. Ecclesiastes 3:1-13
After all - if one should wait patiently for face paint, perhaps one should wait for changing seasons as well.
There are a thousand topics I could choose tonight. The last week of camp lends itself to reflective thinking. I haven't yet started to look at the time ahead. While part of me does long for a few days of unscheduled rest, relaxation and cleaning up the house a bit, another part of me is decidedly not ready for camp to end.
When I was a kid I used to hope that a rock slide would take out the road to camp so that we could all stay there longer. Now I just wish that the last week of camp was next week. I've traded Seven Brides for Seven Brothers for simple procrastination.
But I am tired, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
The reserves have bottomed out, for all of us.
And you can pour out like this - ifit is only for a season.
In my mind I know that the season needs to end.
But in my heart I will mourn it's passing a little bit.
I am home feeding the introvert that needs a quiet living room free from people and noise, while my co-workers are celebrating the end of the season. I've been surfing the web and social media and news of Robin Williams death, blogs on discouragement are cropping up. Discouragement, depression, the words ring a bell and tie into my thoughts.
Division,
Discredit,
Discouragement,
(there was a fourth "D" word that was given out at the beginning of the year in training, and I am too lazy to go retrieve my notebook and too tired to remember it.)
I could talk about how insanely fun camp has been. The things kids say, the practical jokes, duct tape, Pjs, costumes, face paint, and unexpected hugs that mean the world to you because they came from that one kid who has been distant and troubled all 8 weeks of camp, the one whose tough shell makes him hard to love - yeah, I got a hug from that kid today.
But in my very last post for this year I'm going to talk about the dark side of camp. Because it is real.
Division - it has been there. Not where I thought it would be, nor as strong. For the most part the staff gets along well, and the issues between two different aged camp programs have been handled between the leaders with only a few ripples from what I could see. Both groups seem to recognize the needs of the others and will often work together for the sake of the campers. Resources are shared, pathways are adjusted, bumps ironed out, understanding has been given, communication kept up, unkind remarks swallowed. The two camps work well. But there has been a skirmish going on between two parties where the unkind words and thoughts have not always been held back, on either side. And it hurts. It hurts because I see the struggles. And yeah, it stings a bit to watch. Because deep inside I know we are batting for the same team.
Division - it has hit us, but I will also say- that it has been a minor skirmish - not an all out war.
Discredit - When this was presented at the beginning of the year, it was stated that all it takes to end the work at camp, is for us to loose a camper. In a society that is media driven and prone to sensationalism there is truth in this. And several times this year I've watched situations come so close to unfolding, situations that could do irreparable damage. Some we have little control over, some bear re-thinking how we do things in the future, others will crop up that no one could have seen coming. The older I get the more I realize that there is this odd tightrope walk to life - doing what you can to reasonably keep your charges safe, and then trusting God. Trusting that God will keep the part that you can't cover (and that seems to get bigger every time I think about it) and trusting him when things go wrong to help you find the right path forward.
Discredit - I don't know if any darts that the Devil threw hit the bulls-eye and sunk deep, but I know that they were thrown this year, and if they bounced off - I'm thankful for a camp that does what it can on the tightrope and a God who fills in the vast space beyond that.
Discouragement - I've been here, part of me knows it is a weakness inherent in my "artistic personality". It is a stereotype, but there is a reason for the idea that creative people are prone to moodiness. The times when trying to find the good and the neat are really difficult because your mind is spinning on other deep issues, chewing at the things that are wrong, building the negatives into fortresses, worrying at concepts like a dog on a chew-toy. The days when the neat stuff with campers and staff just doesn't shine as brightly, the days where you skip worship time and hide, because of the shadows on the inside.
Discouragement - yeah, some of those darts have hit home, and I am pretty sure I am not alone.
Eventually, I've found the sun to shine brighter, for the meaning behind playing with legos and marbles with a couple of five year olds to come back into startling focus. The bug song to come on in the big room and to be drawn back into corporate worship because I find it comforting to know that God loves us stinky, squashed, creepy bugs with a big big love. To hear little voices singing Bible verses, and to find hope in that even if they have the words terribly mangled.
Yet I know that not every journey in depression is short. And I am aware that transition times, especially off of these spiritual high places are often places riddled with discouragement. When the reserves have been used, when you have poured out until there are only fumes left. When you have gone the distance, and then gone the distance again because God had a plan you didn't see. When it is over. The enemy is still on the prowl.
I remember coming back home from camp as a young teen. Back to stacking up the wood in the woodshed and mowing the lawn for the neighbors. Back to life that didn't resound with praise choruses and challenge with meticulously prepared messages. Back to the normalcy of regular old life. And I would fall into depression then. It would last for weeks, sometimes months, not days.
Depression isn't just a bout of discouragement. It is deeper, longer, stronger.
I fear I may walk a variation of that path again. It wouldn't be the first time.
I don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe that it is a coincidence that a celebrities death has sparked a surge of articles on this topic right at the time that a mountain top experience is about to drop me back to the valley below. No - I don't believe that it is all centering around myself- but that God is weaving a story where many threads touch and intertwine. There was a reason this topic is on my heart. And perhaps by opening up a bit, I can help others.
I've battled depression. It comes back to be battled again. And again. I've come perilously close to loosing the fight and ending my own life. I've walked that path. And while it has been a long time since it has been that bad, I do not have the confidence to say that it never will be again. There is no "cure" for depression, though there are tools that can be brought to weigh in the battle.
Some of those tools are medical
some of them are social
a few of them fall under life experience and maturity
some are physical
some are mental
and some may be spiritual
I want to share some tools that have helped me in the past and that I am throwing down here on paper to help reinforce the next few weeks. One is a Bible story, but I want to be clear on one thing. Depression doesn't go away just because you read a Bible story, or claim a verse, or read your Bible and pray daily.
Christians commit suicide just like other people do. (That includes practicing Christians.)
If the path gets really dark I pray you will look for every tool, every weapon that can be brought to bear, and that you will enlist the aid of family, friends, angels and strangers alike to give you aid.
I am drawn to the story of Elijah on Mt Carmel - a public challenge, a miraculous answer from God, revival on a national scale. You'd think that would be enough right? Nope - it all gets followed by a deluge - a miracle storm ending a season of drought with Elijah racing Ahab down the mountain. Elijah wins - he was on foot and Ahab was in a chariot. God used Elijah to show up the king time after time on that one day.
And after that great spiritual battle - Elijah is spent. He is drained, He is afraid. He is discouraged. He is tired. He is on the run.
And God sends respite, and care, and rest, and time away.
And
He
still
talks
to
Elijah.
He doesn't give up on him. He doesn't get mad that Elijah got worn down. He sent the still small voice.
It is a really cool story. I still don't understand all of it. And for me, it is encouraging. Encouraging because the Bible is about real people, and real people get discouraged. Real people battle depression. And they keep battling it. And sometimes they fail.
And God still talks to them.
Even when they cannot hear the still small voice.
Maybe my hope is not rooted in the ones who are hearing, but the one who is still trying to talk.
Another tool that I found particularly meaningful in some of my darkest days was a song.
The promise in this song became my own. The fact that another Christian had walked those steps, and not one who was spiritually immature, or weak, or turning their back on their faith, a real genuine Christian just like me (well, immensely more talented) a real Christian had been to the edge. And their visit there helped pull me back.
There are some lines in that song:
And realize that though my world
Might seem so torn apart
Most often it is joy that breaks the heart
Maybe it is easier to pick out the light when you occasionally sojourn in the land of the shadows.
Maybe it isn't a waste of blog space to look at the dark side of camp on the last week instead of writing about getting to play in costumes today (and yes there is a lot of funny stuff there - love love love being a stormtrooper - but you loose a lot of credibility when you have to sidle up the stairwell doing the "wide step waddle"), and yes explaining that I was not dressed up as Olaf - that too.) Or about how incredibly amazing my co-workers are (and they are. in so many ways that it boggles the mind.)
Maybe the fact that God seeks to be with us in the dark places, that he cares about us when we aren't paying attention to him because we are too wrapped up in our own troubles, maybe that idea will be helpful if you look back at your own view on the four "D's" that the adversary pulls out of the quiver and uses to wound us. In looking back at the battle scars and even the open wounds that have yet to heal.
My friends, we are all looking to a change. It may have rest, it may not.
But it is still the battle field.
God-speed and good hunting.
It has been a year of letting go of some life-long dreams to see what God will put in their place. [I wish I could say that letting go was all done graciously, but I'm afraid it was not all that way.]
I had this concept of what running a middle school youth group would look like. Lot's of energetic teens sitting eagerly in small groups to take in and talk about the Bible. Instead reality was a lot different. The energy is there, no doubt about that, but my idea of who God would send us to camp out in our living room - well - God blew me out of the water on that one. Kids from across town and across the spectrum, of all levels of ability and different places in life. From non-verbal autisim to athiest our group is nothing that I could have imagined. God has touched us through this group. And no they don't eagerly sit down to participate in small group discussions like I imagined, but they do eagerly take in videos about the Bible.
Oddly enough my work with our autistic student (and some healthy desperation after two years of looking for non-existent part-time educator positions) led me to a new career as a special needs aide. It was a job that I learned to love, but some dreams died the day I accepted the position. After wanting to be an astronaut, my second, and more reasonable, career choice has always been teaching. It was one of the things I felt I could do: even do well. And while my new job involved a lot of care-giving and learning, I can resolutely say that it involved no teaching. I might work in education, but I am not an educator right now. And God has brought me peace about that. because it is where I am supposed to be at least for this season.
And finally looking to camp. When I applied, I applied to Camp Vertical (2nd - 5th grade) not Camp Zoom (4-6yrs). For someone who thought they would be teaching high school science, pre-school is a stretch. But I knew I didn't want to float around the edges of camp again this year - so when the offer came, and it was Zoom - I took it. I am sure that my thoughts were along the lines that I would probably serve a year there, hopefully be asked back and move on to the older program.
I had no idea what I would learn about myself and camp after a summer spent in the pre-school program.
Could I thrive in the older age range - probably, but I also now see some issues there that I didn't before. My age, personality, and background seems to lend itself to being the camp "enforcer". The time out bench is often my domain. And the cool thing about that has been the relationships that have been forged at that bench. One of the things that continually amaze me is that the campers who sit there are also the ones that seek me out to sit by me in large group or give me a hug when they come in each morning. Those connections are priceless beyond measure.
But I look at that domain and in Zoom there are other momma bears to share that load. It gives a foundation to a program with a few more tricks that the span of years has brought, the patience that staying up nights with infants (or teens), the shared experiences of having our own children "on the spectrum", the invaluable steel of the "mom voice" - that no-nonsence "nah-ah" that means you will stop this behavior now, laughing together with a friend that holds my respect and trust as we roll up the bouncy castle, and the glances over the heads of campers that give the security that we are in this as a team.
The visible part of camp function falls to teens and twenty-somethings that I have grown to respect and love this summer. They tackle camp with an energy that is long gone for me, and with skills that I either don't have, or am rusty with. There is no way I could choreograph motions to a song in under five minutes. I struggle figuring out which place to press on the ipods at check-out, and far after my own touch-meter has overflowed - they are still willing to give out piggy back rides and hugs. They lead worship with enthusiasm and joy and to any parents reading this - please know that they care genuinely about the little ones in their charge. This is far far more than a summer job for them - it truly is ministry.And they are good at it.
Then there is my chosen age group, the teens and pre-teens that I thought I wouldn't get to work with. They are alongside in the trenches - they keep the non-visible part of camp running. Lunch boxes and snacks get to where they are going because of these kids (and that IS a very big deal). They set-up, tear down, and often learn as they go about how camp runs. In a few years they will fill the ranks as staff instead of volunteers, but for now I am simply loving the quirkiness and energy of students that still need direction from us, who aren't quite there as far as leadership, but who are growing leaps and bounds every day. In many ways I feel that middle schoolers are ripe for spiritual growth spurts - and I love watching that process happen.
The little ones - yep they teach me more than I am often willing to admit. Resilience, humor (when do we loose that?), joy, curiosity, interdependence on others, readiness to forgive. . . . my summer has been overflowing with lessons from these little lives. Under the guise of helping to run a program for them to have fun and learn about God's story, they are the ones who are teaching, and I am the student. It is role reversal of the best type.
What I am left with is the incomprehensible feeling that as well as I thought I knew myself, God has known better. Standing in the scraps of my broken goals and dreams I have found a place that has touched me more than I could have thought possible. What I didn't think was a good fit, God has used greatly in my own life.
So Camp Zoom - all the people that the title means - Thank you - I've come home.
And God, thanks for turning on the porch light that I didn't know was my own.
There are a lot of sticky topics and choices out there. This is a talk that I have with my children, and because I am visual, it comes out in pictures. The gist of the talk is that we want a black and white world. We want right and wrong to be clear and easy and straight across the board for everyone.
But what we want is not always what we get. We live in a world where others have different belief systems, and even those within a similarly described world view have differing outlooks. In Christendom, we point to the Bible as our absolute. In this I am in full agreement. It should be the work that forms our opinions on the basics of right and wrong. I totally agree with this as a foundation. But it is not a simple foundation. The Bible presents complex scenarios, flawed people, and areas that are subjectively open to the reader's interpretation.
[I often try to figure out where the line is. I know that there is a piece of logic that says an author means one impervious point no matter how many subjective distortions there are upon the reader's interpretations. But in the case of an omnipotent, omniscient God - could he create a work that has different meanings to different individuals? Welcome to my mind folks.]
Ultimately I am confronted with the idea that my guidebook to morality is not at all simple in nature.
In some ways I am heartened by the fact that there is a complexity here. It makes me hopeful that it goes far beyond 10 commandments and addresses the complexity of the life I live in. But it leaves my view of what is right and wrong looking a little more like this:
Then we start applying an individual filter to morality. You see we are all different people with different thoughts, proclivities, strengths, and weaknesses.
There was this video game that I used to play. It was a good game - rated E for Everyone. No violence, no questionable material. A simple game made for children. But for me it became an addiction. I started to be incapable of putting it down and doing what I needed to be doing. My house chores, my family, they started to get ignored for this game. It became a wrong choice for me because of my addiction, even thought it would not be a wrong choice for others who did not have that struggle. This addition of individuality to right and wrong brings a greater change in our "morality map".
And in this case each individual is going to have a little different map. Mine won't look like yours and yours won't look exactly like anyone else's.
It isn't always about big glaring elements. Sometimes the difference between right and wrong is in the smaller details. Some, like motives, may even be unseen to all but God.
Taking a look at the stories we tell, the above two are both about stealing from the rich. Yet one is about a hero and the other is about a bunch of hoodlums. Attitudes, motives, the small details of the situations make these two different stories with two totally different moral outcomes.
When you take the detailed stories of our lives and lay that on top of individuality, and a complex guidebook, what is right and wrong gets increasingly difficult to pick out of the mix.
And then there are value judgments. I'll never forget the time my 2nd grader brought home a school worksheet that had the answer, "I would choose to lie." to a question about what they would do if they were the main character in the story. Needless to say, I started reading that book right away to see what was going on.
The young character in the book was entering America at a time when immigration laws forbade families from entering the country together. The children had to lie about their connection with the parents to remain in their family unit. They made a judgement that in this case family was more important than honesty. You see sometimes our decisions and choices are not about a right vs a wrong, but sometimes about which right we will choose over another. [Just ask any parent of teenagers about choosing to go to the PTA mtg or watch a ball game that their child is in.] And in other cases, life puts us in positions of choosing which evil we think is the least damaging. And if you think that the Bible does not portray people in the middle of these situations, I would ask you to look at the story of Abraham and Isaac [among a multitude of others]. Abraham chose obedience to God over the life of his son. He had a no win situation and had to make a difficult value judgement.
Life, and morality is turning out to be something pretty complex. And here is where I will make some people upset. Because we also have an adversary out there, and he is subtle. You see there are things out there so vile and depraved that society as a whole will shun. Too often it is the subtle small things that we are willing to overlook that can do damage.
Oooh - told you I was going to get a reaction.
Now let me start out by saying that the Little Mermaid is not the ultimate in evil. My kids have seen and enjoyed it. I enjoy parts of it a great deal (Under the Sea & Kiss the Girl). But so often a catchy tune and likable characters can pull us out of thinking about what a story is actually saying. I really don't want my own teen daughters to have the idea that you follow after "true love" at all costs and that everything will turn out all right. It is a dangerous message. [While we are on the topic, I find it rather disturbing that the King in the movie was willing to sacrifice all the people in his kingdom for his own child - rather opposite a story that means so much more to me.] So while it isn't the ultimate in evil, it is sneaky, and if you aren't thinking, you are going to miss the message behind the colorful animation in an unexpected place - a children's story.
And this one is a hard one for me. Because I want my children to think, but I don't want them fearful of the world around them, or calling out everything the world produces as wrong. It is a heady tightrope to walk when I add in the presence of an enemy of great experience in the affairs of men. He has an ability to make the lines between right and wrong quite blurred.
Where it lands us is that we often open our home to age appropriate material that is questionable. When my children were young we watched the Little Mermaid, but we had conversations about how the choices in the movie might look like in real life. Now that they are teens we are talking about the Hunger Games. Because I want my children to learn discernment. I find it is difficult to learn that when there is a lack of exposure to different viewpoints.
When I start to think about all of this, there are times when I feel a little overwhelmed. We are a long way away from a black and white- right and wrong - list of actions here. I long for the ease of that list. But I am a complex being living in a world of complexities designed by a God who is incomprehensibly complex. I can start to drown in all of this as an adult. So how do I pass on a moral grid to my children?
I know what I want for my children. I want a discernment that is rooted in a full and overflowing knowledge of the scriptures and the complex laws and stories that are contained in the Bible. I want this tempered with the wisdom and gentleness that Christ displayed in his interactions with others.
I want my children to stand firm in what they believe to be what God has chosen as right and wrong, while at the same time being able to present their viewpoint with a persuasive gentleness and kindness rather than open aggravation and hostility.
I pray that God will guard our hearts and minds, because I have to admit that I don't know how to get to what I want. I often struggle with being judgmental and alienating (case in point, using a well loved Disney movie to make a point). But I am hoping that my desire for this will count a little, and that God will help us a lot along the journey.
Why did I say I was going to blog on Wednesday? Wednesdays are really my least favorite day of the week. By this time I am dragging physically, mentally, and emotionally. I am forgetting which camper goes with which parent, the wrong names come out of my mouth when I look at my co-workers, and sometimes I feel like hiding rather than dealing with yet another hitting, shoving, fighting, not-listening, out of control child.
Oh, that's right - I thought it would be healthy to try and be positive on Wednesdays, that if I told everyone out there that I was going to write about what I saw that was happening that was good, and right, and of God, that it might force me to look for those positives instead of being pulled under by the negatives. Cool in theory, but I can honestly say that I thought several times today, "What in the world am I going to write about tonight?"
Now to be honest given a nice long ride home in a van full of quiet, tuckered out children, I was able to realize that a lot of really good things did actually occur today. A child with anger management issues repeatedly choose to handle difficulties in a right way; some young volunteers are growing in confidence, responsibility, and skill; we got to show appreciation to some of our support staff, and I still look at the team that I work with and am in awe of what a great crew we have, oh, and I got to wear my PJs to work.
Yet during the day today those positives peaked quickly and I found myself lingering in the low spots, the places where you think:
will this child ever follow a direction - ever?
we're going to figure out what works only to never see them again after this week - or the next - it's too short of a time, so why bother with this level of input into them?
kids these days are so disrespectful and defiant - what's going on?
And those thoughts take you to dark places quickly. Until you figure out how to diffuse them. For me that means thinking them through a bit - because I do that. Other people can listen to upbeat music to pull themselves out of pessimism - me, I need to process mentally. So going backwards let's look at those thoughts:
kids these days are so disrespectful and defiant - what's going on?
I will admit that there is such a thing as moral decline. History kind of proves that. However, I am not ready to jump on the "America [or this generation, or the world itself] is going to h*** in a handbasket" bandwagon. Maybe because I believe that no matter where in the ramp of social moral decline we find ourselves, we are individually morally bankrupt behind whatever society we've built to hide behind, and those at the founding of a "just and moral" nation are no less sinners than those at the point where the mortar has begun to wear thin. Yes, the kids are disrespectful and defiant. And I am proud and unbending, given to negative thinking and prone to fall into self-reliance and frustration. God's Word has a lot to say about us both, and to be honest it reads quite a bit harsher on the items on my list than the items on the little ones that started me on a cynical rant of hopelessness about a downward moral spiral that is in reality the crumbling of an outer mask. The problem has always been with us and will continue to be.
The other side of this is that I need to remember that for the dozen kids I pulled aside today for re-direction, reminders, time-outs and talking about consequences - there were a hundred more that I did not have to do that with. There are a ton of sweet obedient respectful children that I ignore completely when I start this line of thinking - and that puts me in a mental /emotional place that is not at all fair to them.
we're going to figure out what works only to never see them again after this week - or the next - it's too short of a time, so why bother with this level of input into them?
My first year as a camper, I was excited. I still remember the guy who gave the sermons and that he talked about Jonah in a way I'd never heard from my very sedate Sunday School teachers. I remember the polished tree log where they threw mattresses underneath and you got up on it, legs locked around that slippery surface and had pillow fights until one of you dropped to the mattresses below. I remember grape soda, and bats in the cabins. I remember catching frogs - big frogs, the ring of the cook banging a serving spoon against an empty coffee tin, and that camp food tasted better than any other.
But when it comes to meaningful conversations and moments that I had there - I basically remember one big thing. We had played a game where two teams faced off and claimed numbers down one line and back up the other, an old burlap sack was placed in the center of that mountain field between those battle lines and the idea was that you would run out and drag the sack back across the line. When my number was called I ran. And I pulled for all I was worth - and then more numbers were called, but only those from the other team came out. I was drug across that mountain field for at least 10 yards maybe more, on my back, because I was too stubborn to let go until I blacked out.
When I came to, I was laying stomach down on an ancient bed with a lot of bandages where the rocks and field grass had managed to get the upper hand over the skin on my back. The activities director was there - he was red faced, I didn't find out till later that he had run me to the nurses station. And to my surprise he sat down and talked to me. Not about weighty spiritual things, but about what I liked about camp, what I wanted to be when I grew up and finally about why I hadn't simply let go of that silly burlap sack. He laughed with me about that, and told me that sometimes being stubborn was OK - but next time if it hurt to let go.
Outside of his games which he ran with all the campers present, he probably spent ten minutes with me, five of which I was unconscious for. And yet 35 years later I remember that conversation. I guess the point is - that we have the campers for the time God gives us. I cannot give into the idea that it isn't enough - 5 minutes can make an indelible memory.
will this child ever follow a direction - ever?
Hey self, does it really matter? Weren't you just the other day telling someone that what we do doesn't matter as much as whether or not we are loved? Yeah, I know that you meant it in the context of special needs, but maybe you just need to start looking at general misbehavior as another form of special needs. After all we are all "on the spectrum" we are all broken people. So yes, follow what you need to to accomplish the purposes that we are striving for, if a child is disruptive or a distraction - yes we have to deal with it. Safety, yes deal with it. But also remember that:
When you look for the
bad in mankind,
expecting to find it,
you surely will.
(The above quote can be attributed to Abraham Lincoln, or Polyanna or both. And maybe because of the movie Polyanna, it sticks with me.)
I am loving our camp worship songs this week, but there is one particular song that I can't get out of my head. It's bug week, and we have an awesome worship director who found this gem of a song:
It's silly, but yeah so so true. God knows who we are beyond our misbehavior, beyond our pride and self-reliance, and beyond our hurts. He knows, and he loves us all. So whether I am looking at "stink bug behavior" at camp, or my own stinky thoughts and feelings - there is still a whole lot of hope - because we have a big big God who loves little little us.
I have stood on the side and watched Camp Vertical and Camp Zoom since they started. My children have grown up here. I checked them in and hovered, waiting, watching to see what the program was going to be like, listening to see what my children would be taught, picking up staff handbooks left here and there and leafing through them with the intrusive nosiness that only a mom can have.
My kids had fun, lots and lots of fun. And they built relationships with the staff. Camp grew over the years as did my children and when my oldest daughter first grew out of being a camper and joined as a volunteer, I sat in wonderment as I looked over an amphitheater full of students, lots of them - sitting through training for the summer to come. I was not surprised when they asked for questions and my daughter's hand shot up first. "How old do you have to be to be a counselor?"
I knew then that it would be a lot longer until we grew out of camp. And over the years I started to see something really neat. In a word "retention". The same staffers came back year after year after year. It's not a field that lends itself to that. When I was in college you were considered an "old-timer" at a camp if you were on staff for more than one season. In an occupation that lends itself to volunteer hours, small stipends, or minimum wage and draws from high school and college students to fill the ranks, it is not surprising to have a high turn-over rate - in fact it is expected.
But not here.
Here there is something different happening. The staff keeps coming back. Not only did they come back, but they started getting more applications than they had positions. Students work for a year as a volunteer to be considered as staff the next. Campers grew out of volunteer helpers and into staff in a natural progression. So many of them that the number of weeks middle school volunteers served has to be limited. Vertical ended up with more staff than some camps have campers. It is one of the first times in my life where I have looked at a ministry and said "here the workers are not few".
And I have seen some of the reasons why along the way.
Camp here looks at their people as valuable. They pour time into training, growing, and building their staff. And then after they do that, they listen to them. It is one of the first positions I've held where my voice actually counts. That is valuable. It plays out in the simple things. Asking staffers what their opinion is of a Miley Cyrus song on the playlist. Listening and acting on suggestions. Giving time to talk with staff and be available to them. Scheduling a full week of training before camp starts where the basics are covered and gifts are explored and developed. Making sure that camp is a place for everyone to grow.
That type of valuing and respect from the top filters down through the ranks. And people look to value each other. The environment is supportive and encouraging. And that in turn impacts our campers positively. I am sure that it could all be chalked up to best practices. But here it is more than that. I think it is Christianity in action:
love,
joy,
peace,
forbearance,
kindness,
goodness,
faithfulness,
gentleness
and self-control.
That cannot be powered simply by doing what other successful leaders do.Real Christ-like-ness has another power source - a greater one than human best efforts. So I guess it should not surprise me to see something different happening here. Something bigger and more profound that what I have ever seen before.
But those things that are going right, they aren't limited to keeping staff on. There is a purposefulness here that I find refreshing. There is a type of thinking that slows down to consider that our children are constantly changing and the world they live in is different now than it was five years ago. It is a type of thinking that takes into account that our youngest campers have never known "Hannah Montana" a family friendly Disney TV show - they have only known the Miley Cyrus of the current headlines. It's the purposefulness that keeps a program age-appropriate and safe. It allows for appropriate touch in a way that the public schools no longer can. And it thinks through how we approach our faith and passing it on. It is intentionality, and this coupled with a look at the details spells out L-O-V-E -- the first in that list up above.
After a particular thought-provoking dissertation, in staff training I heard the young man next to me thoughtfully say, "Maybe if we want a relationship with God to be our focus, maybe when we use the Evangi-cubes, our opening shouldn't be 'Are you sure you will go to heaven?'Maybe we should be asking a different question?" Not too shabby of an idea from someone a third of my age. Training, thinking, adjusting. . . it is healthy.
These are a quick glimpses of what I see going right here. There is care, thought, change, support, and community. Sure there are warts in the mix - every place has that. Yet I see something really cool happening at Zoom & Vertical, something that makes dealing with the sticky situations, the occasional frustrated parent, and the children, some of whom are hurting so much on the inside - worth it.
If I could talk to those frustrated parents, those hurting campers; I'd want them to see what I see. A community that is pouring themselves into its youngest members, a community that keeps coming back to care for campers in a way that only God can make possible. I'd want them to experience worship with 4,5, and 6 year olds - an experience that is joyful in a way that most adults don't have the privilege of experiencing. I'd want them to be able to laugh and play and have water fights and eat rice krispy cookies, and use facepaint. I'd want them to see a noisy joyful place that through it's care is pointing to the one who cares for us all. That's what I'd want them to see.
