9 things I learned at Christian camp

So camp is in full swing this summer, and it's got me thinking back to the 11 years and 4 camps that filled my summers growing up. Here's what I remember best.

1. Getting there is half the fun. 

first ever week at camp. Can you spot me?

Picture a 15 passenger van. Tan with brown lettering. Hot seats. Hot windows. Hot armpits. The smell of melting hard candy. Something sticky in your hair. Sloshing cokes. Stained pillows. Bangs being teased. Jeans being pegged. Someone crying. Someone belching. Someone laughing uncontrollably. Someone snoring. Someone feeling sick. A heavy mist of hairspray and sun-ripened raspberry hanging in the air. The crunch of pringles underfoot. 

And that was before we'd left the church parking lot. 

Whether to Junior camp 45min away, or Teen camp 8 hours away, the ride was savored as much as the week itself. And the return trip would offer up its joys in a much similar fashion. Except we'd know all the verses to The Austrian Went Yodeling in 7 different voices. (I thought it was ostrich not Austrian for years...)

2. Your suitcase becomes a foreign object the moment it leaves your home. 

What is this thing full of random articles at the foot of my bunk? Who packed this excessiveness? Why, there's at least 5 of everything! How can every last travel-sized toiletry get lost inside it? At least it's a place for my soaking towel and water-day clothing. Not to mention all my left-over snack shop food I can finish on our ride home the end of the week. 

3. Personal grooming is extraneous (aka junior week) 

Exhibit A: what to do for 8 hours in the tan van. 

What do you mean 'do my hair?'

No one else seems to care

and lake algae adds a certain flare.

Ate my scrunchie on a dare... 

Forgot my comb so wanna share?

You have no idea, folks. 

4. team spirit brings out the inner dork. 

Seriously. I was "rah-rahing" from the moment I tumbled from the tan van. One of those cheering campers you wish would lose their voice or pass out. The one that showed up to 'wacky hair day' looking like a Star Trek alien while every other girl was tastefully preppy. I'd stress over understanding the different games, then give MY ALL. (thank you low center of gravity). I'd accost kids I didn't even know all over camp with the secret hand motions and phrases of our team. Anyone wearing my team color on some part of their body was fair game. 

5. Camp food is the BOMB-DIGGITY. 

Camp is the sure-fire, step-by-step manual for making your kids eat anything. Run them hard from sunup to sundown. Dehydrate them. Put them on a hot, shade-less activity field for 45 minute time slots. Let them flail in the deep end to their hearts content. Run them through the obstacle course. Ok, do it again just for kicks and giggles. 

This will make variations on cardboard taste like Heaven. And may be why I remember all camp food with something akin to obsessive adoration. 

6. Nothing good happens during night games.

Beth in 'we will win this game or die' mode

*drops mic/walks away*

7. The Holy Spirit is not bound by externals. 

He's not bound by the counselors. Like the one whose counseling looked like sharing her life story and its woes for 40 minutes. Or the one more focused on googly eyeing the team captain than the 8 girls in her care (kids are smarter than you think). Times when I wanted to talk through deep slung struggles in my spiritual life, but was hurried through the one-on-one as "the really good girl who will probably be camper of the week again this year..." 

The work the Holy Spirit can do is not bound by limited camp facilities. Not bound by the razzmatazz level of the speakers, the weather, the food, or quality of the program. All these things certainly help, and to be honest most of my counselor and camp experience was outrageously positive. But in the end, it comes down to the Word of God. Give the Holy Spirit opportunity to change lives through preaching/teaching/reading/counseling from/ and devoting with it. And no matter how scummy the lake (or not funny Funny Time is) The Word will not return void. It will accomplish all of God's purpose. I'm living proof. 

8. Important people were behind me 100%.

At camp I found myself surrounded by people walking with God and loving it. And all of them had the same message: The Christian life is real, and we want to help you grow in it. 

long live the camp hat. 

One of the key players in this was my Dad. He was my pastor/youth pastor/main sponsor every year. He'd be around during the week doing whatever secret things sponsors do, but at some point he'd buy me something from the canteen and sit on a bench with me for a few minutes listening to what God was doing in my life that week. Sometimes he'd give further counsel or ask for clarification (more for me than him). But always it would end with "Good Beth. These are important things God is teaching you. Stay sensitive. Stay in God's Word. I'm proud of you." This was pure gold to me.

9. Devotion to God is worth it. 

Of all the times I raised my hand or walked the aisle at camp, this was the main lesson God was teaching me. My Creator is worth my time, my love, my trust, my loyalty...He's worth giving up lesser things. Worthy of being shared with others. Worthy of my obedience. His Word is worthy of careful consideration. I'd come home with sermon cassette tapes with titles like "the High Cost of True Christianity." and replay them til they wore out. For months afterward I'd sing "I have decided to follow Jesus" in my devos, the Holy Spirit teaching me what that meant in my every day teenage life.

The Word of God had been given unrestrained course into my life for one week, and its ripple effect could be felt the other 360 days of the year. In fact, to this day I can trace much good in my life to those crazy weeks away from home. 

Moldy towels and matted hair aside. 

Beth 

the tragic, old song of Stanford and Orlando

Last week? It's as if I'm there. There at that Stanford court case with my mouth hanging wide and my blood boiling. Hearing the tumbling words of someone so wrong, and someone so wronged.  My heart sounds in my ears. 

This week? It's as if I'm there. Watching a maimed humanity tumble-flood the street outside that Orlando bar. Hearing the audio recorded by some trembling hand. The end of bodies. The flight of so many souls. My heart sounds in my ears. 

I hear these stories every time I click the radio. See them every time the tv pings on. Read them on every front page. I feel the inestimable loss. The outrage of both of these tragedies. Hear the inevitable what could have been helped? The why here and now? The how do you pick up what is shattered beyond repair? And l think: this is an old, old sound.

This is not a new song.

Since Eden man chose the lyrics to this melody. Falling soft from the jagged-edge jaw of a serpent, we ignored their poorly gilded evil; happy to catch them up as our own: 

Has God? Is God? Surely not. 

We would have none of our Creator and His way. None of the perfect. None of being made in an image other than ourselves. None of that glory. 

And as soon as humanity took up this song, it took up murder. Rape. Incest. Adultery. Slavery. Lying, stealing, coveting...every imaginable violence. We took by force all that was created good and left it to bleed out. Became addicts to what leeches our feeble best and feeds our worst. We hate, and lust, and imagine all sorts of wickedness continually. We lust because we do not have. We kill and desire more blood. We fight and war. We smirk thinking we've trumped our Creator. Has God? Is God? Surely not. 

But we can't shake the inevitable counter melody; the loss and pain entwined in our seeming victory. This nagging obbligato of what could have been helped? and why here and now? And how do we pick up these pieces?  
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We hear this old song behind the recent tragedies: I will use you because it will pleasure me. I will mow you down because I want to. I am my own divinity; it is my right. And this triumph song? This i am my own god? Will always become a funeral dirge. The old chord progression of death/passed on all men/for all have sinned. We shake our fist at God and find ourselves bruised bone-deep in the heel. In choosing our own way, we've chosen our destruction. 

Yes, the details were new. The rape location became the filthy backside of a dumpster. The Orlando weapon? Unusual in its effective brutality. But the song has not changed.

It is an old, old sound.
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And I wonder, at what point do we wake up to this? Realize that weapon reform, and stricter laws, or heavier punishment, or more education is not the answer? These may mute evil for a moment; pause the music. Delay the refrain of death. But they cannot crush silent this twisted melody on continuous repeat. 

Only the One who gave us life can deliver us from the body of this death.  

And it's only when we turn towards our Maker than we can be remade. That we know the full healing of His finished work. Of His bearing all our broken, gilded evil in His own body and that cross. But it will mean a change of lyrics. A humble song of God has. God is. And I am not. To a truly this is the Son of God come to take away the sin of the world. Come to take away my sin. 

There is no other salvation from the tragic, old song of these last two weeks. 

Beth  

a lesson from my first ball

Okaaaaaaay, let me explain. 

I have a good friend who enjoys Civil War era reenacting, and this past weekend they invited me to a Summer Soiree. (also I think every event should be called a soiree. Say it out loud a few times and you'll agree.) Think swishing hoop skirts, fluttering fans, and Pride and Prejudice style dancing. You know, the kind full of graceful steps, white gloves, tiaras, and the least amount of physical contact there could possibly be. (thank you, Victorian manners) 

Have I put your minds slightly at ease? 
We still friends?
I hope?

Good. Then let me say... 

You guys. Under the towering ceiling of the glowing historic hall...every window draped with bunting and table dripping with flowers...I found myself completely swept up in a new (very old) world. For a sensory gal like me, this fell somewhere between can't-stop-to-even-breathe invigorating, and curl-up-in-a-fetal-position overwhelming. Mostly I stayed in the background trying to keep my mouth from gaping and my eyes from bulging as I soaked in every detail. 

Lovely mental image, eh? But there were moments when I found myself sashaying down the center of a swirling reel or side-stepping to a bit of flowing waltz. And I learned something right quick, y'all:

It's hard to follow if you don't know the steps.

Now, I like to follow in life. And I've no desire to take charge of a perfect half-turn, or switchback thingy move in time with the lilting cadence of period music. (Don't want to lose my lifetime membership to the can-barely-clap-hands-in-rhythm club, right? right.) 

I wanted to be led. But (through no one's fault but mine) as I tried to 'relax and just follow' it looked more like awkwardly swinging my arms and shuffling my feet to some disturbingly free-form, inner cadence of my own. If I'd just known the steps. That when the person beside me places their foot here, I place mine there. If I could just comprehend the big pattern. Learn the movements I was to parallel. 

And when I knew the steps? To follow was thrilling. Natural. Beautiful to perform and beautiful to those watching. I could relax into being led.

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As believers, it's hard to follow if we don't know the steps. 

We're swept up in opportunities, split-second decisions, conflict, change...wondering God, how do I follow You in this? If I just knew the steps. That as you place your hand on that part of my life, I am to respond like this. If I only knew the pattern of your movements. the big picture of what I'm to parallel. And I can end up doing my own awkward thing. My actions driven by a disturbing inner cadence of selfish desire and my own understanding. 

Enter God's Word. It illumines the steps of life (Ps. 119:105) guides our actions (Jn 17:17), defines what is right and wrong (Ps. 119:9,11), and provides light and understanding (Ps. 119:130). A hundred more references could be added here. It's by this Word I learn the step of trusting when I don't understand. Learn that only by pride comes conflict. That Christ is the pattern I'm to parallel in temptation, trial, prayer, and affliction. I find principles that outline fool-proof steps in opportunities and split-second decisions. And I see the big picture: He's transforming me into the image of His dear Son. 

My Bible contains each step necessary for my life and godliness. 
I have only to read and apply. 

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As the evening progressed, I observed certain nuances to the most experienced reenacters: a subtle flourish in movement and posture. These weren't necessary; they just completed the picture and perfected the form. But if I'd attempted mastery of how I hold my thumb to the neglect of the big steps? Well, that's another mental image for you. But in life, I find it's often the nuances of God's will that I strain for, to the neglect of His revealed will. The name of the man I will marry. The exact career move, the specific location. And that's gonna throw me and those around me off-kilter. 

In this spinning dance of life, there's One leading me to will and do His good pleasure. Following Him? A thrilling, natural response to that work. Something beautiful to perform and beautiful for those watching. And as I trust Him to mature me into the complete, and perfect form of His individual will, I may well relax into being led.

After all, I know where to find the steps and the pattern.

Swishing hoop skirt or not. 

Beth