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