Loving that response

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.

The best Halloween party ever

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.

__________________________________

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.

Job Comparison

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.

One last day of change

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. :)

Are you frightened?

No, not really.

Are you worried?

Not a bit!

I know whatever's gonna happen,

that God can handle it.

Variety is the season of life

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; yet^a no 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.

wwW: August 13th Week 8 The Dark Side of Camp

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 - if it 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.

wwW - August 6th - the road paved with broken dreams

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.