Better to give. . .

Acts 20:35 "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

The leader may have been covering cell phones and the ability to give away possessions, but I found my attention drawn elsewhere.

I am a crowd scanner, a people watcher, and he was hard to miss. Half the size of anyone near him, disengaged, sad.

Except I knew him.

And I'd been through these assumptions before.

One of the advantages of having taught 5th grade for the last three years is that I know students in this room. We've spent time together.

And this sad, withdrawn student saved me. Always looking to stretch 5th grade small group time to new places, I had made puzzles out of some artwork on the seven days of creation. Pixelized watercolor portraits that spoke to my sense of artistry. I cut them into tetris size pieces, never dreaming how hard the puzzles would be to put back together. They were almost impossible. One of those times when a craft turns out 1,000 times harder than what you thought it would be. It would have been a disaster, a complete waste of card stock and ink.

Except for this young man. I watched. He was methodical and organized. Far more than I would have been. Pieces got organized by color then shape and systematically tried and moved to different piles. It was slow, but effective. It took weeks of the free minutes at the end of class when I let kids choose what to do, but in addition to the organization there was a quiet sense of persistence.

One by one the days of creation took form on the classroom bulletin board.

Different thinkers. They are the ones more comfortable with puzzles than people. Their responses may not be the same as their peers. They may seem isolated, unresponsive.
We make assumptions because they don't interact with the other students in the room, that they are friendless. Or we assume that because there aren't smiles, that they are sad. We take quietness and label it as disengaged.

And sometimes we are so far from the truth. Because there were friends, and he wasn't sad, but content in his surroundings, supported by a loving family. As to disengaged, well, I came to find out that this little 5th grader was thinking thoughts so deep that it would challenge the thinking of the adults surrounding him.

It took time. Time to learn. Time to tear down the preconceived notions that hit me initially.

And here I sat  watching - a year later, and if I hadn't known already, I would have made the same exact assumptions.

And I wondered. In my case, maybe God wasn't focusing in on my reticence to give away earthly possessions, but my reticence to delay judgement. A tendency I have to hoard my good opinion until I feel it is earned. What if I gave grace more freely? What if, when slighted either intentionally or obliviously, I forgave 70x70 times. What if I focused on finding the positives and giving people my best impression of them from an outside view instead of pouncing on percieved negatives.

One of the things I am in constant wonder over is God's ability to hit me where I am  - even though I am 3-4 times the age of most in this room. Even though I am still on my very first cell phone.

The kids were dismissed and I was pondering stuff. The stuff that is on the inside that I don't necessarily want to fess up to - the dirty basement that you close up when company comes. And in pondering I almost missed it. But I didn't.

He walked by on the way to group and caught my eye,
and he waved,
and he smiled.

And that smile.

My heart melted.
Because that smile meant 100 of the ones that come so readily to others.

Thank you God for my different thinkers,
and what they teach me every day.

Praying for snow: a spaghetti story

Perhaps you've heard of Men are like waffles, Women are like spaghetti. The idea is that women tend to think with the type of fluidity that one would have if they traced a path through a pile of spaghetti noodles. One thought connecting with another seemingly random one.

Well that's the way this story goes, so hold on for the ride. It starts with mini pumpkins. Decorated with sharpie from the gym lobby where the middle school students meet each Sunday. You see I get the privilege of getting small art projects put out, for the students, who feel more comfortable making something with their hands than playing games in the gym or striking up conversations with peers.

It has been so much fun, and a blessing to me in several ways, to see crafts as a part of a bigger picture. But the October craft, the mini pumpkins were piling up. The kids were creating them but not taking them with, as we had intended. I had piles of beautiful pumpkins, some done up in metallic sharpie, others zentangled, some with scripture verses, even one with a drawing of a dolphin jumping out of the water, carefully drawn on each segment so that when you spin the pumpkin the drawings animate. (Yeah, really cool!)

I asked a friend on staff at church if there was any event coming up at church that she could use the pumpkins for as decoration. She immediately brightened and mentioned that they were getting a room decorated for the International Center Students that afternoon. So after service I headed over to that wing and dropped off a crate of pumpkins. I wasn't intending to be there.

Nor was Mr. Taher, who was waiting for his host family. But the cool thing that struck me was that even though he was our guest, he immediately started helping us in any way he could. He moved tables and chairs like he was part of the team tasked with the job. He was outgoing and introduced himself with a handshake and a smile. And I found myself scrambling to look to his name-tag to see where he was from.

And my heart leapt a little. Bangladesh. The one foreign country I knew a little about. I smiled. "You're from Bangladesh! My uncle lived there for a while." 

"Who was your uncle? Where did he live?"

"I think it was in Dhaka? He was there working with the translation team."

"No he lived in Chittagong, my province. He was my teacher."

By this time we were both grinning hugely.

The connection of a person special to both of us.

We talked about how my uncle would teach his Bengali students songs in Greek and Hebrew, and how my cousins would teach us songs in Bengali.

And I look at the odds.

I am one in 300 million Americans.

Mr. Taher is one of 150 million Bengali people living in a country roughly the size of Wisconsin.

The chances of us having a common tie is astronomical.

I wasn't planning on being in that room, nor was he, but we have a God who can handle those types of details. Those types of odds.

We both took photos, he to take back to Bangladesh, me to send on to my Uncle who now resides in CA. 

He was enjoying the fall colors in WI. I talked about how magical it was growing up in the desert of UT and hearing about monsoon season. He said he wished he could be here for snow. And I remembered. I remembered my uncle telling us of how hard it had been to translate Psalm 51:7, about being washed from sins and becoming whiter than snow. Because there is no snow at the equator. I remember him saying that they considered everything from a specific flower to chicken feathers, but that it was difficult, because how could one explain a sparking expanse of snow in a culture where that did not exist.

I am praying for snow right now. Yes, it goes against everything in my culture, where we often pray that the cold will hold off. Because the snow and the winters here are long. But then I remember the magic of the first snowfall every year. And I think how much more that might be if you have never seen it. And I pray for snow for my new friend. For a fellow believer. 

It is beyond my ability to grant. It lies in Gods hands alone. And it is he who weighs out the details. Sorts through all of our small wishes and knows the paths that a box of sharpies mini pumpkins might take you on. He gets the details that make up the fabric of our lives. And I trust that he will find the right answer, whether that favors my friend at the International Center, or my next door neighbor who is aging and wishes that we had a climate closer to that in Bangladesh.

So from art projects, to a place halfway around the world, to WI weather patterns. I think I should make pasta for dinner tonight. 

Lessons from Origami

I saw her across the room and I knew. The signs of anxiety were there. It's not too uncommon. The first Sunday morning middle school meeting can be rough on 6th graders. It's new social territory at an age where anything social can be terrifying. I saw her tentatively approach the craft table and to my relief my daughter who came in to help me started talking to her. I saw her coach her through the folds to produce a simple fortune teller and I realized something.

Doing crafts together is a great doorway into conversation. You don't have to look up. You have an excuse to focus on what your hands are doing. And conversation comes easier when you don't have to look at someones face, at least when you are that nervous, and that worried, that everyone will think poorly of you.

I also realized that even crafts can be intimidating. The fortune teller wasn't turning out super well. It was a little mashed, a little lopsided. I saw her face, the eyes start to get glassy, a murmured comment under her breath that it wasn't any good. And then I saw my daughter, a high-schooler, pick it up and say, "It's perfect! I needed one just that shape to fit right here. No other one is going to work there in that space." And she grabbed the glue gun and deftly glued it into the collage of fortune tellers that were dotting the surface of a paper lantern.

I saw some of the uncertainty disappear. There wasn't a big toothy smile, or an extreme transformation, but the worry lines relaxed. And a connection between two people was formed. A connection that would make the rest of the day better for both of them.

__________________________________________

We are like origami some days. Some days the folds and creases are crisp  and everything falls into place and other days things go wobbly and uneven. We feel lopsided or unfinished. God talks about pottery with clay being thrown onto a wheel, and the truth is that origami is a lot like that. Because when things turn lopsided, there is still hope. You might still fill a needed spot, in fact it might be a spot that only you can fill. And if it is so bad that someone wadded it up - well it still unfolds. There are a few fortune tellers on that lantern that have come from those wads. Unfolded. Refolded. It works. Torn edges taped. Folded back into shape. Given a spot in the big picture. A place that would otherwise be bare and empty. You'd notice that empty spot, even when you don't always see all the pieces that make up the MOSAIC.

Yeah, some days we are like origami.

After, Before, and In-between - Camp Week 9?

It is transition week 1.  The week after camp. 
Withdrawal.
Because the laughter and screams of little kids is like a drug.
Haven't you noticed?
It isn't the coffee that wakes you up.
It is the kids.
We've been zombies the last few weeks until they pull us out of it. 
Back to the reality of life in all of it's color, sound and camp chaos.
There is no other way to state it. 
I am in withdrawal.
I miss camp.
I miss the kids. I miss the staff. I miss the schedules and bandaids and meltdowns and worship songs belted out by a hundred little voices.

Humans aren't great at transitions. 
It's a fact.
These are places of struggle for most of us.
Some of you are headed back to high school.
The new year looms ahead.
You wonder about teachers and classmates, about friendships and dramas that have yet to unfold.
Some of you are headed back to college.
There are bags to pack, forms to fill out, goodbyes to be said - some for the first time, others knowing that there are friends waiting on campus.
Some are headed back to work.
That can be keeping a household going or school-year jobs or both.
Others have uncertain paths ahead.
Nothing is yet clear and waiting is part of the challenge.

I don't like transition, or waiting, or the busy of getting ready. I don't care much for Camp Week 9 at all. And when I find myself struggling here I try to go back to a place of comfort. Believe it or not - that's the Bible stories we started telling our little ones this summer. I say "started tell" because there are limits to what you can communicate with 10 minute attention spans and wiggly arms and legs.  Limits are also imposed by keeping things age appropriate for pre-schoolers. 

But I don't have those limits in Week 9 with those of you reading here. And I find comfort in a God who sees us as we are: broken, uncertain, fatigued, sometimes listless, but cares about us anyways. There is a lot more to some of the stories we tell. There is the before and after - the events that frame some of these well-loved stories, and the in between places where we look at a few sentences written in scripture and flesh that out with our imagination.

For example:
We often tell the story of Elijah and the prophets of Baal on Mt. Carmel. It's exciting and dramatic. Sometimes we even tell about the rain coming afterwards and Elijah racing Ahab down the mountain afterwards. Elijah was on foot, Ahab was in his chariot. He shouldn't have won, but God was into taking Ahab down a few pegs repeatedly that day. Talk about a story involving "arch-enemies." You can practically see the raindrops sizzling as they came off the king when that "rag-tag prophet" pulled ahead of him on foot. Sometimes we tell that part of the story. When we have time. But not often do we talk about what came next.

The low point after the high.
In one day Elijah had been in the center of God showing his nation that he was truly in control. And that nation responded. They put the prophets of Baal to death. They made a clear statement about who they were going to follow and they did so right in front of a wayward king. It took courage, but they had seen that God was big. Bigger than Ahab and bigger than Jezebel. And Elijah was the lynch pin in that story. The man willing to stand up to Ahab and Jezebel before God worked his miracles. A man who had repeatedly told Ahab what God had in store if he didn't turn things around. A man that Ahab had unsuccessfully hunted throughout the land until this final showdown. Mt. Carmel was a high point in so many ways. The climactic finale on an epic national scale.

And Elijah was spent afterwards. Emotionally the fears crept in. Jezebel sent word that she would strike him down, and after all, she was the one to fear, not Ahab. He was tired both physically and mentally. He ran. He left his servant. He crept under a juniper tree. He asked God for death. He was alone and tired and at the end of his being. (1 Kings 19)

That is a story of after. After the high places. A story of transition. A story of inner struggle. The Bible doesn't tell us about what Elijah was feeling. But we can recognize the signs of distress, despair, discouragement. Today we'd put a label of depression on it. Elijah was struggling with the "after." He wanted to die. That is the "after" in this story.

And in that low place, God came to him. He sent an angel and gave Elijah food and rest. Respite, time away. And then he sent his voice to Elijah. God is in the low places friends. It doesn't erase the struggle. It doesn't magically transport us out from under the juniper tree. Instead he meets us there. And he knows what we need when we are fragile. (Never underestimate the power of a good nap and comfort food.) 

After God talks to Elijah in a still small voice we see the story continuing. God gives Elijah a protege in the form of Elisha. At some point a school is started for men interested in prophecy. And beyond that Elijah becomes one of two men in history to be taken to heaven without dying. His story moves onward after Mt. Carmel. After that deep valley. But God met Elijah there.

For me, this story is full of encouragement. Because God doesn't give us heroes who are unreal. They struggled. Incredible, difficult trips to the edge of themselves. Low places. And God cared about them there. It gives me the hope that he is in my low places too. It gives me the hope that experiencing those low places is not dishonorable. It is normal. And we have a God who understands that. 

It means that I am giving myself some space in the coming week to retreat. To listen for the still voice of God. To sleep and eat. To struggle. And eventually to find my path again with God's help.

Another example of the before's and afters that get glossed over: we talked about Joshua leading the nation of Israel over the Jordan river and around the walls of Jericho. Jericho that mighty walled city. It is a high point too in our stories. But we almost never tell the before to that story. Oh we'll talk about Joshua meeting the angel - the commander of the armies of the Lord. But not about what happened directly before that.

In chapter 3 Joshua has the priests cross into the Jordan River and God dries it up for the entire nation to cross during flood season. In Joshua 4, he instructs the men to make a monument to remember the miracle by taking large stones from the riverbed and setting them up on shore. And in chapter 5 God tells Joshua to circumcise the men. OK there is a reason that we don't tell this story to kids. You see circumcision was a Jewish practice that fell out of practice during the wilderness years. And now God commands that his nation stop and follow this again. 

It doesn't seem too weird until you think about the context. Joshua was not leading a pleasant country walk. He was coming into a land to conquer it. He was a military man. He understood tactics and strategies. He understood what crossing the river meant. The river was as formidable of a defense as the walls of Jericho in flood season. Broaching it was a first step towards the fighting to come. It was landing on Normandy Beach. And just after they cross, God tells his people to take every soldier, every grown male and have them undergo a surgery that will incapacitate them for several days.

The Bible is silent on some things. It doesn't tell us what Joshua thought. It doesn't tell of the long talks he had with his wife in their tent. About why God would ask this or how in the world to present this new order to his leaders in a way that would gather compliance. It doesn't talk about fears he must have had in replacing Moses, a very different and powerful leader. Or whether he wondered each time if this was the place where the people would say "enough of this craziness!" If they would think that Joshua, their military leader was making such an obvious military mistake, leaving them all exposed and vulnerable when he could have asked this on the other side of the river. That is all left to my imagination. But Joshua was human. I imagine he struggled some. I imagine the people struggled some.

But he went forward and the nation went with him. They did as God asked and then in the middle of a potential battlefield they stopped and celebrated Passover. And I wonder.
I wonder if this was one more step in a series of steps where God increased the faith of his people. It started out small, step into the River. Then this surgery and celebration, then the walking around Jericho. None of it made sense. 

And I wonder, if the sheer nonsensicalness of it did wonders. I'd like to think that the Old Testament God who commanded war and conquering, used this. Many of the people of Jericho fled. God sent wasps ahead of the Israelites and he sent this formidable view of an Army whose God dried up the Jordan, an Army so completely sure of themselves that they could take the time to party in a war zone. A people so committed to doing what their God said and a God so powerful that fear washed over the oncoming cities. I'd like to think that God cared about the inhabitants of the land enough to scare them away, just as he cared enough about the Egyptians to show them his power in the plagues. 

But Joshua didn't have that perspective. He couldn't have seen what was coming. The miracles to come, the warpath so different than what he could have imagined. Because God works differently than we do. He was still in the "before" place. Before Jericho. Before a long life leading the nation as they settled this land that God led them to take over.

When I land in a place where I can't see the path ahead, or when what God wants me to do doesn't seem to make sense. I come back to the story of Joshua after the Jordan and before Jericho. I look at the trust. I look at the way God built that trust. And I can hope. I can hope that my own trust will grow. Uncertain times are not new. It is a part of the human life. 

In the end, the "afters" can turn into the "before's," and make up a part of the in-betweens that become our lives. But I know it can be hard to see that. We don't get that perspective in our own lives. But God gives us the glimpse in the lives of others, so that we can see. He is there all the time.

When things are upside down and inside out, he is there.
When we think we walk a path alone, he is there.
When we are at the end of ourselves and lower than we thought possible, he is there.
Before the battles, he is there.
In the times of recovery, he is there.
In the times of celebration, he is there.
When things don't make sense, he is there.
In the big epic works of a nation, he is there.
In the little things that a single one of us struggle with, he is there.

My friends, In Week 9, he is there.
All of my wishes and prayers that each one of you can experience his voice and direction and comfort in this time.

Camp Week 6 - Hard Times

Week 6 was hard, 

But then if I was honest, this summer has been hard, 

at least for me.

I find it difficult to be open about certain struggles. I guard certain areas of my life behind very thick walls. 

Perhaps it's pride, a desire to look like I've got it all together, or a deep rooted sense of privacy, and sometimes even a place of not being able to talk because that silence safeguards others - most likely a motley combination of all with sundry other complexities stirred in. 

Because life gets incredibly complex. There are times to be silent. Times to grieve. Times of deep-rooted insecurities. Times where you don't know which way is up. Times where you battle fear or bitterness until you are too tired of pulling it out like the weeds in a flower bed and it starts to plant roots in your soul.

There is more to life than camp. 42 more weeks a year to navigate through. Families and circumstances that are bigger than the time and energy we give this job, this ministry. When you get hit in those areas hard, it becomes easy to get distracted, easier to get discouraged by the small things like another trip to the bench for behavior issues, or the snags that seem to never end. Toilets that overflow much more often than we want. Lunch boxes that always get lost. Volunteers that make the room harder instead of easier. The constant neediness of very young children that starts to wear you down.

Tired sets in, sickness seems to attack repeatedly. Family connections fray and friendships falter, finances fail and the bigger arena of life overlaps camp. Things happen that make the lost lunch boxes and overflowing toilets look insignificant in comparison. And while that perspective bodes well for keeping calm about those incidents, it also presses down with enough weight that you wonder if one of those little things will be the key to unleashing the lake of duress that you are damming up inside.

The distractions inside and outside of camp take you away from noticing the child climbing the radiator and dangling from the window sill. Lack of sleep makes finding the solution for the child experiencing a heavy duty melt-down fade into, "can we just cry it out - because I'm tired and I want to sit here" rather than thinking about directions that might work, options that have potential, or other tools from the bag of tricks.

And operating in that state of distraction and fatigue, missing things, giving up on others, failing to get done what needed to be achieved, leads to questioning whether I really should be here. That I am not adequate for the needs of the job.

And here is the truth of the matter.

I am not adequate.

I cannot always figure out which behaviors are caused by diagnosed Aspergers and which are simple misbehavior that needs to stop.

I cannot give comfort to a child who has lost a grandparent and the Christmas tree and lights in Christmas in July are triggering a deep sadness where that pivotal person stood in their life.

I cannot find consistency and at the same time reach out to those who are so utterly unique that camp needs to flex more and more to meet them where they are at. The rules change. And sometimes the rules need to change - and other times we need to change to fit the rules. But knowing which is which is beyond my limited wisdom.

I cannot fix the fact that we work with others who think differently and have different priorities, even though I did a lot of soul searching on that last week. Knowing what I need to do: keep extending grace, keep loving, keep holding onto patience. Just because I can identify what I need to do, just because I can state it, does not mean that I am capable of following through on it.

I am not enough.

This week I got there.

And rather than reveling in the fact that it took me so long to break. I find myself starting to become aware that the breaking should have happened so much sooner.

The encouragement to “keep on keeping on” and “struggle forward”  sometimes speaks to a theory that the longer you make it before hitting bottom, the stronger you are. That if you can keep from asking for help, that is a good thing.  And then, all of a sudden, you get in places where you know no other human can fix it, even if you had asked. You hit bottom and it doesn't matter how long the fall was because you're still at the bottom. All that is left is the temptation to think that it is just a matter of finding some hidden vein within yourself to tap into and persevere. Because there seems nothing left to turn to.

Sometimes we think that vein is our own spirituality, our own faith. Sometimes our strength of character, or our ability to forgive or love or stubbornly press forward. No matter what we think that vein is, our gifts or possessions or personhood – it will run dry, because buying into the idea that we can do it if we just try hard enough smells as bad as the C-quad bathroom on Friday.

It’s just not true.

I am undone.

There is no vein to tap into.

Nothing within myself can get me out of the morass of complexity and confusion I’ve fallen into.

There is no way out if I leave God out the equation.

This week I started realizing that. I started praying for help. Real prayers that echoed some of David’s psalms. The ones simply stated that said. “God, I can’t do this anymore. Please help.”

I would like to say that he came in like the flashing lights and voices to Paul on the road to Damascus and upended everything going wrong in my life.

He didn’t.

But he quietly eased a few of the weights pressing down. And it was enough to help me come back to the place that I need to be. The place of realizing that he is still in control, even when I feel out of control. The place of realizing I’ve got to ask him for help more often. The real asking, not any fake social prayers that sound like rehearsed speeches, but the in-your-closet-tears-and-snot-coming-down-your-face-hiccupping-cries-for-help type of prayers that reach down into the core of who you are, and what you know yourself utterly incapable of accomplishing.

The place where you don’t just expect that God will do great things, but the place where you are desperate for it. Because with the desperation comes glimpses of how impotent we are and how cosmically capable he is.

When that gets put into place again, it gets easier to see the balances in what is happening, both at camp and in the larger world outside of it.

And yeah, I am going to go back to some of what I’ve seen recently and finish this post by writing about the blessings. Because when you get locked into struggle, the focus shifts and the first things to fall out of your field of vision are those blessings. The sweet simple things that you don’t have any more control of than you do over the outcomes of the big weighty things. The small comforts that speak to God's unimaginable ability to know exactly what we need.

A dear friend who took a random Mysie comment (yes weird things fly in and out of my head at a pretty constant patter), and turned it into a time of laughter and bonding, breaking generation lines down, and reminding me that laughing is good medicine, but laughing with friends is therapy far beyond most. (Yes, for those of you still not sure, I am talking about Rebecca Black’s “Friday” song turning up in the worship queue.)

A little one sad and shy and tired who came and sat with me in the shade after morning drop-off. I didn’t think it was such a big deal until every time later that day coming down the hall or catching my eye in large group, she brightened and gave a shy wave and a dazzlingly sweet smile. There is something soothing in knowing that just sitting together can make a difference. Just spending time with one of our amazing little people counts.

Another friend who took the time to give me feedback on my own children that made my heart soar. A camp that hires an eclectic range of staff. (Something I greatly appreciate, since I don't fit most molds.) Young people who I get to work with daily who are gifted and growing and whom I count as friends. 

Fellow moms who care and spent time with me when I was too tired to remember my name. The messiness of face paint sponges and stencils. A creative outlet that I can escape into without needing to think. My daughters, rallying to help out where they could.

Sitting during the parent show and having a little one that I've prayed for this summer, lean over and whisper "Star Wars" with an impish smile. 60 seconds later the whisper was "R2-D2." And a string of pauses followed by "C-3P0," "Jawa," "Ewok," etc. until our campers were called up to present. It touched  my heart, this quirky little girl less than 1/10th of my age. And a shared connection that might not mean much outside of the context became something magical in those whispered words.

I can't explain these things. I can't explain how the small things like this seemed to lighten my spirits. It is incomprehensible that these simple little things helped add balance to the weights I've been trying to carry. Until you realize that God has his finger on the scale. 

A good friend spoke into my life recently as I broke down about my overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. She told me "God put you here. You have to trust him, that he has a reason for this. That he has a purpose."

Trust, it's such a tiny word and such a huge act. I am quick to embrace that the Christian life is a struggle - because I am there. It's easy to accept that I am broken and flawed.  But trusting holds a picture of rest for me - a quiet stillness that somehow blocks out the struggles of the day and can find contentment and peace in their place. It is impossibly difficult getting to that place of rest. A place where I can lay aside my fear, worry, and inadequacy and put it in God's hands.

Maybe, I can accept that I cannot reach that on my own.

But I can ask God to help me get there. . . .

Mark 9

21Jesus asked the boy’s father, “How long has he been like this?”
“From childhood,” he answered. 22“It has often thrown him into fire or water to kill him. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.”23“ ‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.”24 Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

Laura Story: Blessings 

Josh Wilson: Fall Apart

Camp Week 5 - Differences

One of the coolest things about camp is that I get to see a lot of it. My job allows me to visit a lot of the activity groups. I get to see that Christmas in July is chill, and Cars is rolling right up the walls. I get to see Dance campers trying on their poodle skirts for the first time, and sometimes I have the freedom to drop by Cook & Create just as the apple turn-overs are coming out of the ovens.

Have I mentioned before that "my job rocks"?

One of the coolest things I get to see is how God brings a whole lot of different staff members together to meet the needs of our campers. 

We are so different. 

The differences go beyond extrovert/introvert. They are as complex and multi-faceted as we are. There are differences in backgrounds, personalities, financial statuses, strengths, weaknesses, fears, joys, ages, and favorite snack foods - just to start the list.

We are so very different.

And this is just a fraction of what it looks like:

I've seen the leader with a loud voice and a big personality, take charge and rally a high-energy group of campers, tearing them away from toys to gather for carpet time with an ease that seems magical.

I've seen the quiet engineer keep free play time away from a hitting, punching, toy throwing chaos, because he's sitting on the floor building Legos right along with the campers and inspiring them to create their own visions.

I've seen the nurturer that is the first to hear a crying child, even if they are on the other side of the Zone. The one who wraps arms around and makes camp a safe and comfortable place, where minutes before it was loud and overwhelming.

I see the organizer who knows how to get all the towels, shoes, wet swim suits, and campers all in the right place on Water Day, with an efficiency that makes it look easy. (It most certainly is not.)

I see those who can multi- task to degree that brings a level of astonishment at how many different directions they can go in at once and still be cognizant of their surroundings. (Yes Stephanie, you are Elasti-girl.)

I see the protector, the one whose mind is on safety, who can handle the drama, blood, and sundry emergencies, even though we still aren't totally convinced about a taser. (I'm 99% there - just so you know.)

I see those who are driven to be busy, who keep camp running through a sheer expenditure of energy. The ones who don't give out until everyone else has left. And show up on the weekend because there was no one else.

I see the planners who have the schedule ingrained in their memory, who are figuring out choreography for next week, or how to make slime for painting - even though that activity isn't for another four days. And I have a deep appreciation for this, as do those who need to purchase supplies.

I see those with the creativity to come up with a new direction on the spot when the spoons for puppets were all used for dirt cup snacks in another activity group yesterday, or those who can tie Christmas in July to archery by stating that the red balloons are Rudolph's nose and get the campers singing Christmas songs while they wait their turn.

I see those who from a background of hurt are able to connect to campers who are facing hardships, campers whose families are dealing with divorces, anger, hurt, and grief. And while I never would have wished those scars and wounds on you, please know that in God's plan they turn into something beautiful when they put you on the path ahead of others so that you can show them the way.

We are different.

And those differences can work together in our favor to accomplish amazing things.

Amazing, miraculous things.

But,

those differences can also tear us apart.

You see, at this point in the summer the energy reserves start to bottom out. The quirks you were able to ignore on week 2 become traits that rub. And with enough time and tiredness the rubbing can get raw.

Our differences mean different ways of communicating. Different ways of working. Different ways of processing. Different ways of handling the strong emotions of fear, joy, grief, and discouragement. And pretty soon in all those differences the cracks of division start to form. They always will form. It's a law of humanity. Because we are all broken in the first place, coming together doesn't heal that. It just makes a bigger pile of broken.

It takes God to overcome that. And lest I lay all the responsibility for divisions and strife and malicious thoughts and actions at his feet. I will also state, that he will overcome it, if we are willing to follow his lead. The cracks become wider when we feed them. And when we follow God, they can heal.

What does that look like? 

• It means extending grace.
• It means tapping into patience, even though you've asked them to help that camper find their lunch four times now.
• It means finding kindness even when you really really don't feel like it, and it takes all that you have not to offer a sharp verbal slap.
• It means not envying the pay, responsibilities, positions, teams, campers, or friends that other staffers have that you do not.
• It doesn't fall into boasting about how well you handled lunch time or the potty emergencies or the bounce house mishap.
• It means not focusing on building yourself up, in your own eyes or the eyes of others. It can do a job quietly and not feed the need for recognition.
• It doesn't cut others off, or seek to be the first back to the bathrooms on water day, or leave messes for others to clean up.
• It means giving up the activity that you wanted to do in favor of someone else's idea. Or doing the "invisible jobs" that aren't recognized. Or forgetting about yourself and how silly that will look to make the day for a bunch of pre-schoolers - even though the pictures may haunt you on Facebook for years to come.
• It means swallowing anger when it rises - and with all those differences and all that rubbing - it will happen - friction builds fire, and you will have choices. Will you feed it or douse it?
• It means forgetting how many times that person has slighted you, it means not keeping track of all of the ways that fellow-staffer is failing to perform. It means not keeping track of all the times the big kids infringe on your space leaving you to do yet another head count to make sure your chicks haven't followed in their wake. (Because if you stop and think about it - we've infringed on their small group times with animated preschoolers all yelling "Boo Boo Butt!") yes that happened. sigh. and it was a group in my charge.
• It means not standing by waiting for others to fail at getting the carts up to lunch so that you can point it out. Or pointing out to your friends how incompetent they are and reveling in that on the inside.
• It means finding and pointing out the good. Telling others about how well they handled that difficult camper, or how much you appreciate their reliability. Finding the good and spot-lighting it. Being an encourager.
• It circles around our campers and each other with protective arms and words. It gives the needed back massage or the listening ear as a co-worker faces battles.
• It lays the impossibilities and hurts in hands that are infinitely bigger than ours and it works at leaving them there in trust.
• It finds the bright side, the mission, the hope for our campers and our friends and the co-worker that you still don't quite know yet. The hope that God will grow us this summer.
• And it means keeping on going. Putting one foot in front of the other. One more snack out on the table, one more activity in place, one more case of separation anxiety, hitting, kicking, or mean words to rest. It swallows frustration one more time. It extends grace to an upset parent one more time. It keeps on going until the finish line when the last snow cone is handed out, the last armband is scanned, the last block is replaced on the shelves and the last bin is stowed for the summer.

Heh, that's quite a list. And it isn't really mine. 

And just so it's entirely clear, I struggle with a whole lot on that list. This is one of those days when I am writing to myself more than anyone else. And I have to remember that in my flailing about trying my best to be patient, trying to forget myself and focus on others. In my struggle to trust. 
That it has a vector even though it is slow and struggling (and sometimes I can't see it) because of an amazing God. Allow yourself the room to struggle, the room to fight it forward. The Christian life is the hardest thing I've ever attempted. Struggling is living. 

And I would fail utterly and completely without two things. 

The first being the body of Christ, believers around me who have both differences and similarities. I would falter without the support of those who think like I do, and those who have a completely different mold. I need all of you whom God has placed in my life. Each and every one of you.

And I need God. yeah. That one almost doesn't have to be said does it. Because tackling I Corinthians 13 in real life is just not going to happen without supernatural power. And even though I hung out a lot with Super Hero camp last week, I know it didn't rub off enough to make it another week with out the real deal.

But to all my co-workers on this path with me, when camp is over. 

I vote for going for shawarma.

Camp Week 3 - . . . in the details

It is said the devil is in the details, and perhaps he is so devious that he can create details that derail us. But he is not the only one with a grasp on the details.

Some days when the chaos of 230 some campers hits home it's hard to even grasp the details. When yet another lunch bag, backpack or pair of water sandals goes missing, when I can't find the craft supplies that were set aside yesterday for an activity group, or when it takes a minor scavenger hunt to find a working thermometer.

The more you get to see a large operation like this, the more you realize that you are not in control - like not in control at all.
You can plan,
you can pray,
you can follow it with organization and hours of work,
but control is elusive.

Maybe control was never meant to be a human domain.

But those details can stack up. And some days you can drown in them.
But when you think your head is about to go under,
interesting things happen.

Things like the wavering over whether to make a Walmart run for more
bait during fishing.
Wavering that might have gone on and on until a camper accidentally dumped another bait box out.
I went inside to see if we could use some of the staples from my fishing days as a child - things like marshmallow bits or hot dog buns. However our pond is stocked and that includes some regulations on bait - wax worms, night crawlers, no foodstuffs that we had laying around in storage.

So I hastily typed "Walmart" into my GPS and realized why the wavering was as steep as it had been, 16 minutes to the nearest location - 32 round trip if I could teleport inside the store and find the bait effortlessly, get through the check-out and make it through traffic. 30-ish minutes was do-able, after all there was still some bait left.

Maybe it would be bad to say that I enjoyed the first part of those 16 minutes. The road, the quiet cocoon of my car. It was a moment of pulling back that I needed.

Well, until I missed the first turn-off in traffic and the GPS recalculated to 20 minutes. I sighed, traffic was not conducive to turning around, so I swallowed and tried not to worry about getting there too late.

Then I pulled up to the Walmart in question realizing that there weren't a lot of cars in the lot, but hoping for some really short register lines.

Nope. The Walmart was relocated.

I considered calling it a day and just heading back sans bait.

But then I figured I'd see how far out of the way the second location was.

Turns out it was much closer to camp.

A helpful Walmart employee got me set up almost immediately and I walked out with my three boxes of wax worms.

I gulped a little as I saw the clock in the car. But the bait was bought.

I pulled into the closest space in the lot to the pond and stumbled down the hill with a handful of bait only to hear an excited cheer.

"We just used our last worm."

On my journey to get bait,  I'd missed the three messages from my daughter on the phone.

"Hey, can you get 5 bins of worms instead of 3. . . we need a lot more."

"The fish keep eating them."

"I also stabbed myself with the hook."


In the end, while most of the kids caught multiple fish, they did stop feeding quite as insanely fast (one group of campers had caught 27 fish on their pole in the 45 minute period they had at the pond - thus the "fish keep eating them" comment from my daughter.) The three boxes were enough with a few worms left-over to throw in the water sans hooks at the end as a peace offering. My daughter's run-in with the sharp end of the fishing line was not serious (which I could have surmised since it was a text complete with punctuation.) And we had a whole lot of ecstatic campers, who all got to fish.

Details don't seem quite that big of a deal some days, and other days they become all that matter.

When they pile up and start to become overwhelming there is often a reminder of who really holds control. On that day it was a reminder that Jesus controlled fishing before and he knew how many fish those nets would hold and he certainly knew how much bait we were going to need on what time schedule.

If he has the hairs on our head numbered, the bait in the boxes is no big deal at all.

And some days I can see and rest in that knowledge and control that he has. I can remember how big God's hands are.

Some days.

Other days, I sink.
I thrash like Peter trying to walk on water.
I forget just how big God is.
I forget he holds every atom in existence effortlessly.

So I find myself writing about wax worms so that on those days, I can remember better.
So that when the big things hit I can remind myself that they are just accumulated details.

Camp Week 2 - Phobias

A friend of mine just blogged about the danger of using the word "fine".
          the-f-word
But transparency is really hard, especially when it hits those things that others aren't going to easily understand. There is a spectrum of connection out there. For instance, many get it when I can say that I am frustrated that my attempts to shrink my jeans size through diet and exercise are not having the results that I had hoped. That one has almost universal connectivity, at least among people my age.

There is a whole lot less of a connection when I say that the bounce house terrifies me. I don't mean, frustrates, or concerns me, I mean terrifies me. In the way where my jaw starts to clench, and the bile starts to boil up into the back of my throat. Yeah, people don't understand that one. Not exactly a common fear: a bounce house full of pre-schoolers.

This last week has been one where fear has raised it's head. From the things that I simply find uncomfortable, to things that are full blown phobias. And I have fought it: some days I've won, but other days the struggle has been a draw, and still others I've been beaten.

Some of them are somewhat understandable. I fear campers getting hurt. It's what drives me to watch the waterside or the wading pools on water day - to make sure no one collides, or is pulled under. It's what makes me confront parents who pull their campers from the safe zone to walk by the pond during morning drop-off. It makes me bark at my volunteers who are trying to use the carts as bumper cars. It's what makes me watch campers who are prone to running away like a cat watching string.

I fear not doing my job well. I am afraid of not finding the right tools to help, or reacting with the wrong response. Knowing when to pull out a firm voice, when to allow a camper to cry it out, when to contact parents, they are all difficult to answer when you are dealing with children who have special needs. I fear doing the wrong things, of not knowing enough, having the right set of experiences to draw on. I fear making a situation worse rather than better.

There is the fear of doing additional damage to the child misperceived as a problem, as disobedient and willful, when I know that it isn't the entire picture. When I know that child's brain is wired differently. That it doesn't ever take a break, that it spins in patterns and gets stuck there, that noise and light are assaults to be endured instead of the forms of input that the rest of us experience. And there is a fear of the damage that child can inflict unaware of right and wrong, needing a sense of pressure that drives the pushing, hitting, and scratching that we try to prevent.

I fear what others say and think of me. I know I shouldn't. I know it's narcissistic and broken. But it's there and something I grapple with. And I project the negatives from my own mind and past onto the quiet conversations in the corner, even though those conversations are probably about the distribution mechanics of hot dog day, not the failings that I see in my own character.

Then comes the march of the irrational fears.

In my youth I read of a circus strongman, who fearing that others would think his weights rigged, went to lifting human beings in the circus rings. That picture has made an indelible impression. A consciousness of weight loads combined with a highly over-active imagination makes crowds difficult. It gets added to the stories that soldiers could not march over bridges so that the resonance would not collapse them. Having a father whose own imagination helped him train schools after the Columbine aftermath brings an added dimension. I am cognizant of support beams, of doors and line of sight, and the idea of a shooter in a gym with six hundred children and four hundred adults haunts me. And then there's that horrid bouncy castle. . .  I am beginning to dread Friday.

Sometimes the only way to stop the thoughts is to avoid the circumstances. So this week instead of watching campers show off their week in dances and artwork and cardboard armor, I moved the snack storage out of the sensory room in alphabetical order. Possibly because I have OCD tendencies, but also because that order was a little way of fighting back against fears I find overwhelming.

There is a fable about two wolves.

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.
He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.

“One is Evil – It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

“The other is Good – It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I find that this parallels some Biblical advice: "Whatever things are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, with good recommendation, virtue, and praise - think about these things."

Funny thing is that verse is sandwiched by others that talk about the presence of "the peace of God," and "the God of peace" in our lives. There is a way to combat fear, that which is rational and that which is not. And it isn't in my own strength, but in remembering the God who holds the oceans in his hands. So I am making an effort to leave my fears in those hands through prayer. And I am attempting to feed the things in my life that are true and good.

I have to remember that it is better to try and fail with children than to not try at all. That failed attempts mean we are just learning what doesn't work. I need to remember that the imagination that sees shooters in the shadows also can come up with camp themes by the dozen and game and craft ideas with ease. And that walking a line close to the things we fear helps us see how to keep things safe. That line is a slippery one so to keep from slipping over into paranoia, I am going to focus on the words of a very wise young camper.

His family was going camping for the first time and there were fears of the dark, so mom was explaining that they would have flashlights when our preschool camper smiled and said, "We don't have to be scared, God is always with us."

Truth from a 4 year old.


In a slippery, scary world, that really does balance everything out with the security we need doesn't it.


"Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

Camp Week 1 - Mad Scramble Mondays

I have the amazing privilege of working as a special needs director at an incredible summer camp. I love the job. Which I still find somewhat surprising, because I never would've seen this in my future a few years back.

It's been years with a lot of learning, about myself, about others, about the world we live in. I've learned that Mondays are hard. I work primarily with preschoolers and while we have some registration forms where parents fill in their campers needs and they do a good job of listing out special support the child might need, we have a lot that go blank, for a lot of reasons.

Sometimes, parents don't know their child has needs that don't fit in the range of "average." They haven't experienced school or large group situations where they can compare and contrast their child with others. They have been with their child since birth and the fact that their child moves constantly and doesn't like lots of noises, covering their ears when the vacuum or television comes on is just normal. Kids that age do that right? Kids this age are picky eaters. That's just normal.

It isn't until comparison in a larger setting occurs that one can see the rest of the kids that age seated in a circle for story-time, while yours paces a pattern in the carpet in the corner of the room. Or that other children do eat fruits and veggies occasionally, or at least ham and cheese sandwiches, they aren't locked into pre-processed foods and only certain brands of those. They don't refuse to eat their fruit snacks when the company switches from corn syrup to cane sugar in their recipe. When parents see their child covering their ears and rocking back and forth in the middle of a group of other children who are sitting and laughing delightedly at a puppet show. It isn't until that happens that the differences become clear.

For many, preschool day camp may be their first exposure to the range of age appropriate behaviors. And for the first time their child is being talked about as "different," "special," "having some needs." I have to say that I dread these initial conversations with parents. They are hard. I pray about them, and go into them with a knotted stomach, because I remember the first time someone said that about my child. I remember the surge of emotions, I remember the denial, I remember thinking that the person talking just couldn't see the reality of my daughter, that they were the ones that didn't understand how to reach her. I remember what it felt like. I remember the time it took us to acknowledge that our eldest needed help that we could not give her. And I remember the pain, the grief, the feelings of shame that you couldn't pin down - because it wasn't her fault or ours - it just was.

Others know. They have the IEP from kindergarten. They have already been through the diagnosis stage. They are no longer unaware or in denial, but they hope that camp will be different from school. It is more active, more fun. They think that what wasn't working at school might work here because it is a different environment. They hope that they can take their child off of the ADHD meds that he hates taking, because camp will be different. They don't give us a heads up, because they have a hope that we won't need it. That this will be the environment that their child thrives in and becomes part of the "normal" crowd. And sometimes they are right. There are children that thrive here where they didn't thrive in pre-school. But for every one that thrives, there are a lot more that still struggle. There are still sit-down times, there are still rules. There are still places to be and groups to stay with. But in my gut, I understand the hope that "this time it will be different." Because you cling to that, sometimes for a long time.

Some parents are afraid of giving out the information. They are afraid that we will call them back and  say their child can't come. They are afraid of rejection or labeling and how that will impact their child. They will be silent because they feel that giving the information will set their child up for failure rather than success. That wearing a tag of "autism" or "sensory processing disorder" will hurt them more than help them. And so these parents are silent, fearing the phone calls, the labeling they don't want and sometimes cannot accept. Hoping that this time nothing will happen and no one will say anything. Hoping that their child will blend in and not be the one in the group that is different.

Some parents don't understand the camp environment. They don't realize that we have water day and make slime, and have dance parties to Disney songs in the black light room. They don't realize the number of triggers here for sensory challenged children. They don't realize that we simply tell a group that if they need to use the bathroom, right now is a good time to do so. We don't track who went and who didn't, unless we know a child is struggling in that area. They think that we have enough leaders  to have a 1:1 volunteer with each child that is having a rough time. And some weeks we can do that, but more often we are stretched further than that. And even when we can do it, it takes time to figure out where those 1:1 volunteers are going to be placed on a Monday when the notes are all blank.

Which means that Monday is a scramble day. There are parents to meet with at check-in. Especially those that did say something about their child's needs.  Parents whom I need to get information from about triggers and stims and key words and coping mechanisms. There are the cases of separation anxiety that crop up because there are campers brand new to the program coming in alongside those who have already been here. There are velcro parents and helicopter parents and parents who are 15 minute late for work already, and cannot understand why Monday check-in is so much longer than any other day of the week. There are the walkie talkie calls as we realize that one of our undocumented children is a flight risk. . .
And we are outside. . .
And the campus pond is triggering their fascination with all things water.

Mondays are mad scramble days.

But they are also the start of wonderful new journeys.
Because that child with the "autism" label, he will change you this summer.
The flight risk will give you heart-attacks and make the story of the prodigal son real in ways you never could've understood before. You will learn to be thankful for the staff member who guards the pond faithfully every morning, a job that goes unseen most of the time.
Your prayer life will deepen. Your trust in God will grow. Because you will start to realize how totally and completely out of control you really are.
The work you put into finding out what works for a child having behavior or sensory issues, will draw you closer to them.
And in that closeness, you will find out unexpected things about yourself, and about God.

To my staffers and volunteers and Student Leaders in Training, brace yourself for Monday, but don't brace too hard, because the guy standing behind us is God, and he works miracles on Mondays.

He puts the right people in the right places. What looks like chaos to you and I, is all figured out in his hands. He has the right person with the child facing separation anxiety, the right volunteer buddy with new one coming in with autism. He knows exactly when playtime is going to be over and he works out the details of who gets inside with which leaders, which campers are going to be in the same activity groups and which leaders are going to have "hopping" rooms this week and which will have the ones that are more sedate.

And dear parent who leaves the notes section blank for whatever reason, please know we love your child just like the rest, even though they are not the rest. They are wonderfully distinctly themselves, and we are glad they are here to walk with us through this week, or longer; to teach us things that we never could have learned without them.