Light

 

I’m coming to realize that one of the reasons I like camp so much is because campgrounds usually have golf carts.

And I like driving golf carts.

 

When I was in college,

And a little more adventurous,

I used to drive the golf cart like a mad woman.

I sped around camp.

I slammed on brakes to make skid marks in the gravel.

I put the golf cart in neutral at the top of the hill and sped to the bottom, racing around curves.

I even drove the golf cart across the street to a bigger hill so that my passengers and I could go  faster!

 

This past weekend,

At age 46,

I carefully drove the golf cart around camp,

Escorting campers to and from events,

Intentionally driving across a field,

Trying to avoid all the many bumps

And not letting the cart get overcrowded with passengers.

 

At one point, I was driving the cart alone at night,

But the cart didn’t have lights,

So it was very dark.

I could barely see where I was going, so

I almost ran into a fence.

Then, I picked up a passenger

Who had a flashlight,

A simple, small flashlight.

She shone the light in front of us, and

Suddenly, we could see.

 

It’s amazing, really.

How one small light can brighten the darkness.  

 

It’s amazing, really,

How one small life can change someone’s world.

 

Amen.

Litany of Thanksgiving

It’s easy to be discouraged these days. Turn on the news. Read the newspaper or glance at the headlines online. There is a lot of darkness. A lot of anger and pain. A lot of division and hurt. A lot of doubt and uncertainty. A lot of wondering where God is and what God is doing. And yet. There is much for which to be grateful.

I spent last week in the mountains leading worship for a children’s camp. In preparation for worship, God laid upon my heart to lead a service of thankfulness. I updated the following litany from a book of worship from the 1950s. Thankfulness and praise are timeless and necessary…especially in times like these. Will you join me in this praying this litany tonight?

-----

For the rains of spring, the sunshine summer, the falling leaves of autumn, and the quiet snows of winter,
We lift up thankful hearts.
For all the workers in mines and fields, factories and offices, hospitals and schools, churches and battle fields, houses and shops, whose work has given us all that we truly need,
We lift up thankful hearts.
For all the dreamers in every land and age, whose creativity has given us music, poetry, and art to connect us to one another and this world,
We lift up thankful hearts.
For the love of our friends and family members, whose presence brings peace and assures us that our lives have value for others,
We lift up thankful hearts.
For the privilege of school, where we have the opportunity learn and grow,
We lift up thankful hearts.
For the gift of life in this world, where we have the honor of loving You more and more each day,
We lift up thankful hearts.
Amen.

T-shirts

A few months ago, I attended a group meeting where the main speaker shared about a project that the group had participated in. We even got t-shirts for our participation. As the speaker shared, though, and I heard many things for the first time, I began to feel disconnected from the group. In all honesty, I hadn’t done anything for the project…because I didn’t know much about the project…yet…I had the project t-shirt. After the meeting, I wrote the group-leader and said: “I don’t feel like I deserve the t-shirt. Yet I want to deserve the t-shirt. I want to be part of this. I just need to know how.”

When I was in college at Meredith, we joked that there was a t-shirt for everything--because there was. And I’m pretty sure that it’s the same way at other colleges.

When I worked at camps during the summers, I always came home with three or more camp t-shirts.

When I taught at Gentry and Erwin for 8 years, I collected quite a few shirts.

When I worked as a youth minister, I made sure to order each of my youth t-shirts.

In fact, I have t-shirt quilts from each of the above chapters of my life.

When I’ve been on event-planning teams, one of the ideas that’s always been brought up has been an event t-shirt.

When I worked in full-time ministry, one of the ideas that I kept bringing up was the idea of a nice work t-shirt.
When an art gallery messed up a Fabio canvas during shipping, they offered me a Fabio t-shirt as compensation. I was thrilled to get the t-shirt.
When I arrived at Johnsonville, one of the first things I did was get a school t-shirt.

T-shirts are a sign of pride. T-shirts are a sign of belonging.

Tonight, I bought two more Johnsonville shirts. Tonight’s purchase made Johnsonville shirt #13. Thirteen, friends. And remember: this is only the beginning of my third year at Johnsonville. At this rate, I’ll be able to make five more t-shirt quilts by the time I retire!

After I bought my t-shirts tonight, I put them on. I didn’t want to misplace them. Someone asked me to turn around so that she could see the back of the shirts. I did. Then I said, “And if you want to see the colors of the other one, then here it is.” I pulled up my top layer of Johnsonville-wear. After I showed off my second shirt, I said, “And if you want to see the original shirt, then here.” I pulled up my second layer of Johnsonville-wear and revealed my original shirt. I told the principal that it would be fun to have someone layer a bunch of Johnsonville-wear and make a comedy skit out of it at a meeting. I told my mom that it would be fun to wear a bunch of Johnsonville-wear to school one day and take off one shirt in between each class, thus teaching each class with a different outfit. I’m not sure that either my principal or my mom thought my ideas as fun as I did, but…alas…I still think both things would be fun. After all. I have 13 shirts from which to choose!

But you know what?
I’m proud of my 13 shirts.
I’m proud to show that I am part of Johnsonville and to be a walking billboard for it.
Do we have our issues? Yes. But doesn’t every school?
I’m proud to be part of a team that conquers mountains every day--
Paperwork, legislation, emotional and physical obstacles.
I’m proud to work in the public schools,
In a profession that changes lives.
I’m proud to be a teacher who voluntarily submits herself to being exploited.
I’m proud that I get the opportunity to change the world every day.

So I will gladly display the name of the group of which I am part—
Which right now is Johnsonville.
And I will gladly wear my group t-shirts—
One or thirteen at a time.

God's Kindness To Us

I learned something today: Minneapolis, NC, is also known as Dog Run. This makes sense…because there are a lot of dogs roaming free up here—yet they’re all very friendly and the way the kids respond to them makes me even more passionate about figuring out a way to get a therapy dog to school.

For those of you who don’t know, I have been leading worship for First Baptist Aberdeen’s children’s camp for the past nine years. A mutual friend from divinity school introduced the children’s minister and me and the partnership that was formed between us has been wonderful. The camp is held at Candlestick Retreat Center in Minneapolis, NC, and each year is like a one week family reunion with the chaperones and kids that I’ve grown to love. I’ve even watched some of the kids grow up to be on the staff and crew.

It’s interesting to see how each year’s group is different. Last year’s group was very into relationships and the girls spent a lot of time primping. This year’s group is very into being kids—running around and playing—going head over heels over the dogs and rabbits and any other animal they see. Personally, I have enjoyed this year’s group better.

Since the kids have expressed such a deep interest in animals, I decided to share an animal story with them at campfire worship tonight. I’ve been reading a series of books that contain stories of unlikely animal interactions. In one of the books, Unlikely Heroes, there is a story about a llama named Little Man who put himself between a herd of sheep and the fire that was consuming their barn in an effort to save them. Because of the injuries he sustained, Little Man soon died. He sacrificed his life to save thirty others.

Naturally, I made a connection between Little Man’s sacrifice and Jesus, so I did something I don’t normally do and focused tonight’s message on Jesus’s sacrifice for us—to save us—not just from hell—but from the chains of every day darkness and fear.

Here’s what super cool, though. Today’s Bible study was on kindness. I had a scripture passage about kindness in mind to share early in the tonight’s worship service, but I couldn’t find it. So I looked in the concordance. After looking in the concordance, I was led to a passage that I’d never fully paid attention to…and it was perfect for tonight…because tonight was not only the story of Jesus’ sacrifice for us but also the wrap-up of a week about being available (using our gifts for God), dependable (being someone that others can count on), honorable (living a righteous life), and kind, and in so doing living lives of spiritual acts of worship:

And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this was not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared for us to do.

I love Candlestick. I love how every year is something different yet wonderfully the same. God is here. In the old school building that houses the retreat center. In the river that runs by it. In the laughter and wisdom of children. In the steady presence and love of the adults. In the Bible studies and in worship. And in how God never fails to show me the exact songs and words that need to be shared.

I am always sad when Candlestick ends, but I always rejoice in the beauty of the week. This week has been good. And God’s kindness through Christ has been shown. And we are God’s handiwork surrounded by God’s glory. Thanks to be God. Amen.

Come To Me...And Rest

One of my biggest accomplishments of all of my years at camp was laying the foundation for my friend Humphries to learn to play the guitar.

A couple of years after we first played together, I drove to Humphries house to visit. Naturally, we busted out our guitars and began to play. A little while later, we’d written a song.

It’s a simple song. The words come from scripture. I honestly don’t remember why it emerged that day. But it did. And it’s a song that I often find myself singing…especially when I’m tired…which is a lot…because working two very public jobs while also trying to be a good friend and family member, responsible citizen, and healthy self is tiring.

Yesterday’s sermon was on the importance of rest—for both the body and soul. We are our best selves when we are our rested selves. We are only able to project peace and joy when we are our rested selves. We need rest. After all, God created rest through the very act of resting.

And so…during yesterday’s early service…I sang that little song that Humphries and I wrote…and it’s been the calming earworm in my mind ever since…and while you can’t hear the music right now, I pray you take comfort in the words…and remember to rest.

Come To Me
7/3/10
Matthew 11:28-29
with Amy Humphries

Come to me
All you who labor and are tired
Come to me
And I will give you rest

Take my easy yoke
And learn from me
For I am gentle
And humble in heart

Yes, you will find rest
For your weary soul
Just come to me
My burden is light

Come to me
My burden is light
Come to me
Come to me

Defining Moments: (Motorcycle) Helmet of Salvation

On Tuesday afternoon, I put a Carolina Tiger Rescue sticker on my car. After visiting the facility in July and learning what the Rescue does, I decided to become a member and supporter. I toured the facility with my aunt, my sister-in-law, and my nephews, and we had a great time while learning a lot. We also enjoyed a lovely meal in downtown Pittsboro afterward and found an interesting thrift shop near the restaurant. One of my nephews bought a gift for his grandmother; another bought a motorcycle helmet for himself. Does he ride a motorcycle? Nope. Does he have use for the helmet? Nope. But he thought it was cool, so he bought it.

Six years ago July, I was sitting in the outdoor chapel at my favorite camp listening to one of my friends speak during worship. My friend was speaking about putting on the armor of God and making that armor accessible to girls today. The passage she read was from Ephesians 6:
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Pray also for me, that whenever I speak, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I should.
Her entire message was good, but the part that deeply impacted me was the part about the helmet of salvation. No. She didn’t suggest wearing a motorcycle helmet as a reminder of God’s salvation—although that image definitely provides one of great protection—especially when the helmet sits so large on the body like it did on my nephew—but she did offer a suggestion: brush your hair.

Profound, huh? For me it was.

I am a hair farmer. I grow my hair. I give it away. I grow it again.
I wash it. I let it dry naturally.
I wear it down until it starts to bother me. I pull it back. I put it in a ball when it’s long enough.
And that’s about it.

For awhile there, I was putting up my hair immediately after getting up. I was leaving it up all day, taking it down at night, and going to bed. There were many days when I didn’t brush it at all because I didn’t really need to.

But then my friend spoke. And she suggested that every time we brush our hair, we imagine putting on the helmet of salvation. And I thought the idea was brilliant. So I started brushing my hair (almost) every day.

Just this morning, I was running late, so I considered just pulling back my hair and leaving. But then I looked at my brush and thought about how anxious I’d been feeling at work and decided that I needed that helmet of salvation—a helmet of protection from the anxiety of this world—from stress, fear, negativity, jealousy, anger, frustration, and more. So I intentionally stopped and brushed my hair, and I prayed for God to surround and protect me with light, grace, and salvation.

Will you do the same with me tomorrow and in the days to come?
Will you wear your helmet of salvation?
Not your thrift-store motorcycle helmet of bulk—
but your prayers for hope and the mind of Christ—
your breath for peace and the heart of God…
which is, my dear friends, the heart of love.

Defining Moments: To Shave Or Not To Shave

I remember shaving my left forearm when I was in elementary school. I don’t know what inspired me to do this. I suppose I was curious as to the function of the razor. So I shaved my left forearm. Thankfully the hair grew back normally.

I do not, however, remember first shaving my legs. I don’t know what inspired me to do this either. I suppose I was following peer pressure. So I shaved my legs. And my leg hair has never been the same.

Not trying to gross anyone out, but, thanks to my dad, I have man legs.

One summer at camp, a friend dared me not to shave my legs for the summer. I took the dare. As I entered the movie theatre one weekend afternoon, the ticket-taker tore my ticket stub, looking down as he did, and said, “To the left, sir.” Then he looked up and realized I was a woman and was mortified. I laughed. I have man legs.

I also have terrible vision. When in the shower, I cannot see my legs well enough to accurately shave them. So I need to shave in the bathtub. Then, more often than not, I get razor burn. So I prefer to shave with an electric razor. Then, sometimes I still get razor burn.

Shaving is a pain. Literally. And it takes up time that I could use for something else—like sleeping. So all in all, shaving is not a priority for me. Is it any wonder, then, that shaving is an activity that I often skip?

[Point of clarification: I’m talking about my shaving my legs. A Garbage Pail kid that I had as a kid instilled in me an aversion to stinky arm-pit hair.]

Back up to late last December…I hadn’t shaved for quite sometime, yet my family was preparing to go on a cruise and my parents had requested that my leg hair be gone for the trip. It was a reasonable request. My legs do look much better shaven, and I’ve taken reasonable shaving requests before. I actually took a request to shave that summer I took the dare, and I shaved my legs for my birthday. It was my birthday present to everyone else!

But when I got into the bathtub on December 29, 2013, I had a full meltdown. I imagine it sounds ridiculous—especially since I actually like how clean shaven legs look and feel—but I was sobbing real tears of anguish at the thought of shaving my legs.

I sent a text to a friend that said:

If a woman doesn’t shave then she is thought disgusting. In general. I know people who are horrified if I don’t shave. Like something is wrong with me. But there’s no reason for shaving other than it’s what is expected for females in America. To me, it just takes time and resources that produce trash that fills up our landfills. And yet. I feel like I must fit the societal norm. Like if I don’t shave my legs then my family and friends will be ashamed to be around me in shorts. Most people don’t mind shaving. I get that. And I suppose that shaving isn’t a huge deal for them. It’s an extension of their shower. But I can’t shave in the shower because I’m that blind. So it takes effort. And I’d really rather do other things. Yet. I let outside forces control my actions.

I sat in the bathtub for around thirty minutes that night. I cried. I prayed. I thought. I wrote. And I got out of the tub with legs as hairy as they were when I got in. I was tired of letting outside forces control me.

I shaved on New Year’s Eve, willingly, as a symbol of getting rid of the old and welcoming the new…

On Friday afternoon, I came home from school to pack for an overnight retreat with some of the girls from my church. I was weary from a long week, so I reclined on the couch to take a little nap after changing clothes and packing. It was at that moment that I realized that I was going to the beach with unshaven legs. I thought, “Uh oh. Some of the girls may think I’m gross. I guess I should shave. But if I shave then I won’t get to nap. And I’m sleepy. And I’m going to be driving a lot this weekend. Oh well, hairy legs. You’re staying hairy. I’m taking a nap.”

The focus of the girls’ retreat was being yourself. The girls talked about the importance of knowing who God had created and was creating them to be and living into that creation instead of the creation of the world. There I was, walking around with hairy legs and shorts, personally not caring that my legs weren’t shaven, but feeling self-conscious that the girls were thinking poorly of me.

And so…I asked if I could share a testimony and told my bathtub story and declared that, sometimes, when life gets really busy and someone dies and work demands so much, we have to make choices and set priorities and that, for me, shaving is nowhere near the top of my priority list. And that’s okay.

I think the girls understood. They even asked why we shave our legs in the first place. I smiled. Then I took my hairy legs down to the dock, listened to the sound of waves and water, and silently thanked God for creating and loving me for me...hairy legs and all.

Defining Moments: Sense of Knowing

Many of you know that I like to read books with my ears. I finished the first book of The Heroes of Olympus series on my way to Candlestick, and I started the second book yesterday on my way to Boone. I went to see Horn in the West.

On my way back to camp last night, though I truly enjoy listening to books, I decided to listen to music instead. Windows rolled down, heat blasting to balance out the crisp 56 degree temperature, left arm periodically waving in the wind, I drove the curvy mountain roads singing as loudly as I could without damaging my voice.

It was awesome.

As I drove, I found myself flashing back to another night of music listening seventeen years ago. I wasn’t in the mountains. I wasn’t even driving. In fact, I was laying in my little bed in my little room, trying to figure out where God was calling me to serve that next summer.

The previous summer, I had worked at Mundo Vista for the first time. I had had a good summer and made some good friends, and I’d even successfully made it through the summer wearing closed-toes shoes! But camp was comfortable to me. I was good at it—gifted, even. And “Doesn’t God call us to step out of our comfort zones? Doesn’t God call us to take risks so that we will rely fully on him?”

That summer, there was a position open for a person to minister to migrant workers in Eastern NC. Speaking Spanish (which I do not do) was highly recommended but not required, and somehow I had gotten it into my head that this was the job I should attempt—because it was way out of my comfort zone and would mean total reliance on God.

Sometime over Christmas break, as I was discussing summer mission options with my parents and talking through my leap of faith migrant ministry option, my dad told me that he believes that God desires us to minister out of our giftedness—that trusting in God and relying on God doesn’t mean being totally unprepared or fighting an upstream battle. He believed that I was gifted for camp ministry and that I should go back if I had the desire. Yet I was a stubborn college sophomore and couldn’t get past the idea of getting out of my comfort zone, so I didn’t humbly listen to my dad.

As I was lying in bed that night, though, listening to a new group that my friend Allie had introduced to me the summer before, God swooped down and covered my body with a sense of knowing that I had never before experienced. Though I can’t remember the exact song that was playing, I know that it came from one of Caedmon’s Call’s first two albums--My Calm//Your Storm or Just Don’t Want Coffee—and I have a feeling that it was either “There’s A Stirring” or “April Showers.”

Regardless, in that moment, on that night, I knew as clearly as I know my name is Deanna that I’d be going back to camp that next summer. I wish I could describe how I knew, but I can’t. The knowing just settled upon and surrounded me. All of my self-imposed struggles faded. And my desire to return to camp suddenly became right.

And you know what? Even in the middle of my giftedness, I was taken out of my comfort zone that summer and pushed to rely totally on God even though I was surrounded by and able to minister with persons who have become some of my dearest friends. From co-leading worship for the first time to co-leading a cabin full of angel tree campers and learning what it meant to host girls whose lives were very broken, I lived outside my comfort zone…yet I lived out of and within the giftedness that God had given me.

It was a beautiful juxtaposition.

Music is a powerful thing. God has used it to speak to me more times than I can count.
What about you? Do you have a mountain driving experience or a lying in bed moment of clarity that you’d like to share? I’d love to hear. And if you share the song, I’d love to sing along.

Helen's Courage

A few years ago, as I was trying to decide whether or not to go swimming at camp, I had the following conversation with a friend: Me: “I don’t always like to go swimming because I can’t see when I take off my glasses.” Friend: “Me either. And when I take my hearing aid out, you might as well call me Helen Keller.” So I did :-). I called her Helen for the rest of the summer and jokingly bought her a copy of “The Story of My Life” by Helen Keller. Surprisingly, she read the book! And she told me that it was a good read.

Fast forward to a few Sundays ago…Patrick was preaching a sermon in which he mentioned Jesus’ ability to move persons from darkness to light—to set persons free from bondage—to give voice to the voiceless. As his example to set up the idea, Patrick shared a bit of Helen Keller’s story—how she, though deaf and blind, was literally given a voice when she learned to read and write. Remembering the simple story from above and feeling totally fascinated by the notion of someone moving from darkness to light, I ordered “The Story of My Life” for myself.

In the week since I began listening to the book, I have watched YouTube videos of Helen’s life, mentioned her in more conversations than should be normal, and been absolutely amazed at her story—her insight, wisdom, intelligence, determination, gratitude, generous spirit, charity, writing, humility, positive attitude, and courage. Other than Jesus, Helen Keller has become the historical figure whom I’d most like to meet should time travel be possible, and her life has moved into a place of inspiration that is not finished inspiring.

It takes courage to set your mind to something at which you could easily fail. It takes courage to open your heart to things that could easily hurt you. It takes courage to face your fears.

For Helen, it took courage to set her mind to learning to sing and speak when she had no point of reference for sound. It took courage to decide to graduate from college when a college degree required taking classes in Greek, Hebrew, French, and German—when English didn’t even come naturally.

For others, it takes courage to:
apologize for speaking hurtful words;
leave a toxic, unhealthy relationship;
do the hard work of facing inner demons;
slowly open and create more space for life;
get out of bed each day;
stay sober;
get married;
have a baby.

I’ve witnessed a lot of courage recently.

I think Helen would be proud.

…

Courage: A Poem
Always know, dear friend, that God’s love and peace are real.
When you don’t have the courage to let go or the stamina to try,
rest in the certainty of God’s strength,
open yourself to the beauty of possibility,
trust in the promise of God’s amazing grace, and
remember that my love for you is real, too.

G-Mama Lights The Way

A few years ago, in preparation for a whole family beach trip, my grandmother, at the height of her QVC shopping days, purchased small lanterns for use by each family member.

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother’s house has been decorated with candles. My sister always enjoyed lighting the candles before family meals…

Until G-mama discovered battery-operated candles. At that point, the wax candles in G-mama’s house, slowly but surely, were replaced by battery-operated candles that light with a button rather than a flame. During the replacement process, the battery-operated candle movement moved its way into the rest of the family and now many of our houses are lit by candles that won’t burn down the house…

They won’t burn down a campsite either.

We should know. G-mama’s light sources lit the way for us to set up camp at Stone Mountain on Friday night.

I can’t remember the exact numbers, but I think that G-mama showed up on our campsite through two small lanterns, one battery-operated candle, one jar candle, and three taper candles. Griffin and I had to change the battery-operated candle so that it could light my little tent. But it worked with new batteries and was super helpful when I crawled into bed each night…and when I heard rain pouring down on Saturday night and had to rig a little curtain out of a Nemo sheet because I hadn’t put the rain guard over my door before going to sleep.

The small lanterns helped us change the batteries in the above candle as well as the big lantern whose batteries were dying.

But it was the jar candle and taper candles that proved most helpful—a jar candle that was really ugly because it had once been melted and taper candles that were old and partially burned but had been abandoned. Naturally, my sister didn’t pack candlesticks. Who packs candlesticks for camping? So we made our own. Out of plastic water bottles.

With a little bit of water to anchor the bottle, the plastic water bottle served as the perfect camping candlestick. And when the candle burned down, it dropped through the bottle opening, landed in the water, and the flame extinguished. Or maybe the flame extinguished before hitting the water. I don’t know. I wasn’t watching. All I know is that the candle was burning one moment and it was safely out the next. Which was really neat. And I know that just one candle provided enough light to penetrate the darkness.

After Amelia and I returned from our first trip to the potty on Friday, my sister asked us if the bathhouse was very far. Amelia responded, “No. We were talking the whole time.” While her answer was very cute and heartwarming—and a testament to her extraverted nature—it wasn’t completely correct. Our campsite was a few minutes away from the bathhouse—not somewhere you’d want to venture to in the middle of the night. But it was easy to find on that last night-time trip to running water and electricity because of…the bright light of the taper candle.

It was a beacon to a campsite full of love and laughter and light…provided by G-mama.

Images from Camp

Four teenagers walking down the road carrying buckets to gather water. The house we were working on had no running water. We were working in a neighborhood that is falling into disrepair as residents are getting older and the town is channeling money elsewhere.

An 82-year-old woman sweeping grass off of her sidewalk, allowing me to finish sweeping for her as she told me how grateful she was for our presence across the street. Talking with her inspired a sidewalk cleaning project that rallied our work crew and gave them a sense of purpose and accomplishment. The grass in front of the house at which we were working had completely covered the sidewalk. In fact, the soil had built up to the point that it was over a foot deep in front of the steps. When we left, the sidewalk was clean and plans had been made for the yard-keeper at the abandoned house two houses over was making plans to clear the sidewalk in front of that house as well.

A group of white teenagers gathering around a middle-aged African American woman, praying with and for her in an effort to release her from the hoarding tendencies that had almost gotten her house condemned and receiving a blessing from her because of the positive path they were choosing. This prayer occurred on Friday, just before we packed up and moved out, and it blessed everyone involved, including our homeowner’s husband who caught my eye and gave me a grateful thumbs-up and nod of affirmation.

The “body of Christ” being shared with each participant by a beautifully humble staff member who radiated peace and joy through her smile and intentional eye contact. Most persons didn’t look at her as she said, “The body of Christ broken for you,” yet she still saw each person and served them the “bread of life.” I imagined her saying a prayer for each person as he/she approached, and I realized that what was happening in front of me was a depiction of what often happens in ministry: we serve yet we are often not seen and sometimes we are even ignored; yet still, we serve, praying that love of Christ will shine through us. The whole experience moved me to tears.

Jesus. 12-years-old. At the temple. Fully alive. Fully himself. Finding his call. Going home. Growing up. Jesus went home to grow up.

Seeing the words “everyone’s welcome here, no one has to hide” projected onto the screen. Hearing the words being sung. Feeling tears streaming down my face as I realized that the words we were singing were words I want to believe but words that haven’t always been shown to me. Everyone is welcome at God’s table. Now it’s up to us, the church, to show it.

Straw Sharing Laughter

There’s a lot of heavy stuff happening these days and a lot of commentary being written about it all. After three nights/days with the kids after a week at youth camp, though, I’m too tired and unfocused to think about anything serious. And so…I will share a story from camp last week that still makes me laugh.

Wednesday night was senior night. Not being able to find where the rest of the seniors were celebrating, Rebecca took our two seniors to McDonalds. I asked them to bring me an iced mocha so that I could have coffee the next morning.

Because we both woke up late on Thursday, Rebecca and I ended up in the apartment alone. As I was preparing to leave, I opened the refrigerator to get my coffee. I asked Rebecca if they’d gotten me a straw. She said no. Then she said, “You can use my straw if you want to.”

Her used straw was in her used cup on the coffee table in front of the couch on which she had been sleeping.

I said, “Wow, Rebecca. Sharing a straw is a new level of friendship.”

She sang her response: “Sharing a straw is love.”

While she finished getting ready, I finished the song chorus that she’d started:

“Sharing a straw is love,
It’s a special symbol of,
Friendship from above,
Yes, sharing a straw is love.”

Choosing not to accept Rebecca’s straw offer, I walked to breakfast simply carrying my coffee…which was a really good thing because Rebecca and I spent the whole walk singing and laughing. Rebecca would make up a verse about the virtues of sharing a straw and I’d chime in with the chorus.

Neither of us remembers the verses. They were spontaneous, out of Rebecca’s crazy head. But we both remember the chorus, and we claim it as one of our most successful hits.

We made up other songs last week as well. We sang about stripes, ear lobes and parks, plastic baggies, camp, and more. And on Sunday, we sang about my nephew losing his pants and about red shoes stomping. Amelia and my nephews requested a Rebecca/Deanna performance.

Rebecca and I are dangerous together. She brings out the silly in me. I give permission for the silly in her to shine. We feed off of each other’s thoughts and we make each other laugh. Sometimes last week we both laughed so hard that our stomachs hurt, our eyes filled with tears, and the veins in our foreheads poked out.

And the laughter was good.

It was very, very good.

When is the last time you made up a silly song? Lived as if you were in a musical? Laughed so hard that you cried?

With everything that seems to be going wrong in this world, there are so many things going right…the simplest of which is not necessarily straw sharing, but laughter, friendship, and love.

A Sunday Afternoon Pre-Camp Reflection

It’s amazing how quickly things change. One minute, I am fully engaged in the morning’s worship service; the next I am transported to a weekend in January that becomes the catalyst for one of the biggest, unexpected prunings of my life; the next I am sitting in a meeting preparing to chaperone youth camp.

Camp. I love camp. In fact, for the longest time, I held the secret desire to buy the land on which the camp that I love most in this world resides. I’d have had to have won the lottery or found someone independently wealthy to give the money in order to do this. But I wanted to donate a large sum of money to the organization that runs the camp and possibly have a needed building built and named after my family—not out of arrogance—but out of the true, deep love that I have for camp and the power that it has to impact lives.

I’m not going to that camp tomorrow. I was actually asked not to go to that camp this summer. But, I’m going to another camp. I was asked if I wanted to go to that one. I’ve never been. I’m not sure what to expect. But I’m excited for the opportunity. And I’m honored to have been asked to do something I love instead of being forced to walk away.

It’s amazing how quickly things change. One day, I am fully engaged in hopes and dreams for land and a future; the next the voice on the other end of the line questions call, work, and actions; the next I am sitting in my home-office surrounded by memories of a life now past, hoping for just $75 per month to give to my church and other ministries that love me just as I am.

Oh Summer Camp

Summer camp…

Summer camp is why I work for WMU. Being a staff member at Camp Mundo Vista so powerfully impacted my life that I gave my life to serving God through WMU.

I didn’t know it at the time—that nurturing campers, cleaning vomit, playing games, jumping in the pool, working to ensure safety during thunderstorms, making up rainy day crafts, adjusting schedules, writing letters, walking through nature, leading songs, handling conflicts, making friends, arguing with the sound system, and scraping plates was permanently forming me into a flexible, well-rounded, observant, and passionate person of peace.

I didn’t know it at the time—that my goals and dreams were centering in on what WMU calls “growing spiritually toward a missions lifestyle”—that my deepest desire would become helping young women be the persons God has called them be—serving this world with the love and hope of Jesus Christ in whatever they do, however they are called.

But I know it now (and have seen it clearly for years, actually)—just how much summer camp has shaped my life. I guess that’s why I come back year after year—doing whatever needs to be done to help create the space for other young girls and staff members to be so powerfully changed.

Train on worship? Okay. Teach about personality type and love languages? Okay. Talk about healthy communication? Alrighty. Help in the shirt store and canteen? Done. Occupy the entire camp of campers for 45 minutes during a thunderstorm? I can do that. Help sort and clean? Check. Spider suck with the Shop Vac? Sure. Listen? Gladly. Accompany a staff member to visit a camper? No problem. Play in worship? Absolutely. Be a missionary? Super. Be a prayer partner and encourager. There’s little I would rather do. Wear closed toed, closed healed shoes? Okay. I’ll do it. But only because I love camp :-).

I know that summer camp doesn’t influence everyone the same way it has me. I know that some people don’t like summer camp at all. I know that the organizational work that I do today will come undone and have to be done again in the future and that interactions with most campers and staff members will quickly be forgotten. Yet. I’ll keep organizing and training and speaking and listening and handing out ice cream and braving thunderstorms and singing and praying. It’s in my fabric. My spiritual DNA. The very core of who I am. And I know that, somehow, in some way, I am connected to countless other people who carry summer camp in their core of being as well.

Who knows. Maybe some of those people are at Camp La Vida with me now. And maybe my presence in their lives, like their presence in mine, is helping them grow spiritually toward a missions lifestyle on this journey of faith.