Hello mother, hello father...

I survived my fifth summer of what used to be called MI (Mentally Impaired) week, now called Freddy's Friends in honor of a puppet the campers all love who can never seem to remember the memory verse. As I said in my last post, the program is really growing, and it was great to be a part of it again.

The camp itself is divided up into The Ridge where the Jr. and Sr. High campers stay during the regular summer program, and the Main Camp (which sounds disturbingly like the title of Hitler's book) where the 7-year-olds through 6th graders stay. The Main Camp cabins house up to twelve campers and a cabin leader and have electricity and plumbing. The ridge has tabits, which I assume is a combination of tent and cabin because that's what they look like. Imagine chicken coop, and you're on the right track. I lived in one for four summers and loved it, which surprises many people who know that I am not generally an outdoorsy person.

This week, Freddy's Friends week was so full that they had to use the tabits, and I got to spend the week in my old home away from home. It still says "Buddy's Cabin" on the outside, the work of friendly vandals five years ago. The holder for my portable alarm clock is still stuck to the inside wall, and the one rule written by my predecessor is still above the door: "Whatever is said in the cabin stays in the cabin."

the tabits don't work quite as well for the challenged as they do for teenagers, but we made it work and had a great time. Several yards into the woods is a large tree that has a capital "P" sprayed on it. Can you guess what it stands for? This was a concept rather new to my campers, but they took to it with vigor. I don't think anything will ever grow within three feet of it.

I had six campers, three of whom I had had when I worked there before. One of them always calls me chubby, and another decided chubby cheeks described me more accurately. It may be awhile before I remember to respond to anything besides chubby, chubby cheeks, and old man.

The food is slightly better than in previous years, but every meal still feels like an episode of Jamie's School Dinners. On the first day we had baked beans for lunch and tacos for dinner. As my mom's three-year-old friend would say, Stupid, stupid, stupid. One camper had diarrhea the entire week. On Thursday night, I had to help him while he was going on a toilet that was overflowing. His shorts and underwear were drenched with poopy water, so I got him a bag to put them in, some moist towelettes to wipe him off, and a towel to wrap around himself as we walked back to his cabin to get some dry clothes. I felt so bad for the guy. But he recovered, and so did I, and we both had a great week.

I got talked in to working next week as well. It's a Sr. High week with a canoe trip, so I'm looking forward to it. I haven't worked with this age in a while, and I'm a bit nervous about devotions. The things I want to talk about may be over their heads (they would have been over mine when I was that age). I hope to find a way to talk to them about the narrative of Scripture as Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Restoration, but I'm not sure how to introduce the concept since many come from traditions that see Christianity as abstinence from social dancing, alcohol and tobacco and asking Jesus into your hear (what ever that means). I guess this week will stretch me in different ways than last week did.

Being at camp is a challenge in itself. There's enough there that it feels like home, but enough different that I miss how things used to be. I miss the great relationships I had that are nearly non-existent now, and I regret the ones that ended poorly because of my immaturity. I'm nostalgic like crazy and hope it stops soon. The past is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

Pray for me if you think of it. I'm beginning to feel like Murtaugh in the Lethal Weapon movies: "I'm getting too old for this." I think I'll go soak my aching muscles in my sister's pool for a while.

Talk to you next week.