The League

 

Middle school camp, where the questions range from, "What do you mean that dark things get hot faster?" from the sixth graders and, "What is 'detrimental'?" from the eight graders to, "What does it mean when people put their hands up [during worship]?" from the seventh grader who has settled himself at my elbow.

Where we run and dance and run some more. Dance during chapel and games and the scavenger hunt to get to Monday morning's breakfast. Run in the dark and in daylight, in silence and to pounding music. And, then run a little more just for good measure.

Where we get lost and find ourselves and ask for a dozen sets of directions. And, where the kids wrestle with big questions about God and smaller questions about life.

"Well," one of the seventh graders tilts his head at me, as if 'because I am a girl' was clearly the most ridiculous reason ever for not being his counselor, "why couldn't you just be our leader during the day and then go back to another cabin to sleep at night?"

"I have my own girls to take care of." I laugh and thwack him gently, moving on before this conversation goes downhill fast, trusting that his amazing counselors will endear themselves to him quickly enough. Because there is a strangely knowing innocence about this age, about G*b* questioning why his leaders have to be male and Al*xz's jealousy over the female leaders' ability to grown armpit hair when he can not.

About kids who heft a flashlight experimentally in their hands, glad for the borrowed light, but almost instantly declaring that, had they been allowed their phones, they would have had an app for that.

But, it's dark enough here that they learn to use the flashlights. Dark enough for night lights even in the 8th grade girls' cabin. Dark enough for running feet to slow in the first night game to wait for me to catch up with them, for a changing voice to declare, "There's Jessica," and set them off again.

Because, part of what they're learning is how to trust. Trust their leaders. Trust each other. Trust themselves.

Through low ropes and cabin times and morning rec, they are allowed to work their way through things that there are no apps for, even if they were to have their phones.

Because, there is no app that will help you spot a team mate so that she doesn't fall off the wall. No app to get the one on crutches from point a to point b. Nothing but their own brains and hearts and bodies to fill the long hours of free time.

No Starb*cks and no energy drinks. No ip*ds or longboards or any of the things that they normally spend their time on. 

They're a little less close and tight than they are at our old camp, a little more confident that this space is truly intended for them. They love this place with the careless intensity that only middle schoolers can muster. But, none of that makes this easy.

It's messy, mixed up, anxious, giddy, joyful, laughing, hurting, and every other word that we could possibly think to use to describe it. Drenched in mercy and grace and love that keeps on going no matter what.

It's beautiful.

Beautiful when we crank up the music or pull out the art supplies for quiet time. Beautiful when they write each other notes or slip their hands into the air for worship. Beautiful when there are tears and when there is laughter and when the injured one forgets the pain for long enough to sing Revelation Song into the darkness just outside the camp fire.

Beautiful when we sit on the bus and the girls call out the character that they saw in the boys during night games that pushed them all to that fine line between adrenaline and fear.

Because, the leadership and teamwork that ooze from these kids is pure gold.

Not enough to win them any prizes or accolades during competitions, but enough to make our leader hearts swell with pride as we watch them bite their tongues against complaining and work carefully not to cheat, even when it would be so easy to mimic the teams around them. 

These are our eighth graders, the ones who play and laugh and dance with the younger kids, who pick up their own trash and a little extra, who let us pull them in from free time early to work on service projects, who work together more smoothly than we could ever think to ask.

And, I could tell you stories for days.

Stories about the kids who finished their low ropes obstacle with nothing but determination and encouragement, but then bent down as soon as they were finished and tightened a loose cable, so that the next team would have it easier than they had.

About kids who were always, always, always where we asked them to be, even if we as leaders were late getting there.

About girls who waited in a cabin for thirty minutes simply because they knew that we would show up eventually.

And kids who jumped into games full force, even when full force is not in their typical nature.

I could tell you about the girl who let me borrow her flip flops when one of mine got eaten by a night game, or about the girls who finally found it lying under some rocks and returned it to my cabin on the last day of camp.

About a quiet canoe ride with a kid who could have chosen a thousand less appropriate ways to debrief but carefully managed to use this one instead.

About the way that they made requests but didn't balk when the answer was not what they were hoping for, and about the ones who hate getting dirty but came down to the mud pit anyways to take pictures for the rest of us.

The kids who sat and listened and honored the stories that were being told on the chapel stage. Or the ones who quietly focused in during cabin time.

I could tell you about the stubborn determination of our one on crutches to get to the top of the giant swing, or about the new friend who offered to take off his prosthetic leg to show her how to do it.

Or, I could tell you about the wild energy that was contained time and time again and then let loose on whatever newest obstacle they found in their paths.

Because, the last thing that these kids lack is energy. Right up until the moment when their heads hit their pillows, and then...crickets.

All of that running? It makes for some tired kids.

And, half the time, I feel like we're learning just as much about ourselves as a church as anything else. Learning what stresses us out and what makes us feel like we can conquer the world. Learning which heart attitudes we are most likely to address with the kids and which antics we will probably let slide.

Learning how to be a team, even when we aren't the ones leading this parade.

Because, we've gotten used to winning everything, gotten used to having the loudest voices, gotten used to being the glue that holds a camp together.

It takes a little shaking and stirring of our hearts as leaders, takes a twenty-four hour stream of conversations with the kids, to settle in and sit back and see what a new camp has to offer.

To decide that the games are awesome, even though we can't seem to figure out the magic formula for coming in higher than "not last." And, to decide with the kids that quietly playing fair is something that we value enough to stick with.

Because, it's good practice for our justice minded thirteen year olds to find the distinction between "unfair that is hurting someone" and "unfair that is annoying." Because, "do everything without complaining" is often harder for our church family than it ought to be.

And, because we value this.

Because, we value being the leaders and students who hang back after a game to clean up our own space and the spaces around us.

Because, we value that sacred space for quiet times that is carved into the daily schedule, even if it look a little different every day. Art. Music. Journaling. Bible reading. So long as you're intentionally slowing down to make time for Jesus, it doesn't really matter.

But, hang with Him. Listen to Him. Enjoy Him.

And, then, enjoy each other.

Because, we may push our kids towards fairness and responsibility, may expect them to honor one another in their words and attitudes and actions, but it doesn't mean that we are earning any prizes for "best behaved church at camp."

Our kids are the ones who sit in the back and off to the edges at meal times, baffled by the idea of standing in line by cabin and waiting to be dismissed

"Wait? You want me to show up early for meals so that I can pretend to be at school while I listen to you talk about things that might be funny if I could hear you over what my friends are saying? Huh?"

They sort of kind of figure it out by the end of the week, standing in the back and talking until enough space opens up that they think they might have a chance at getting food. And, we don't really push it, because we would rather smother them in grace than make getting food an act of performance.

There's enough anxiety coursing through these little bodies. Let's not add anything else.

"Take a knee" echoes often across the rec fields, and we find ourselves the last ones shushing children and nudging them to the ground, pulling them off the edges of the slip 'n slide while the other teams are already settled in to listen.

Shushing each other as leaders just as often. During games and leaders' meetings. And, even when it's just us, all talking over each other and telling stories at the same time, like so many verbal puppies with too much energy to spare and not enough time to spend it.

Down at the waterfront. In the mud pit. Sneaking through night games just as quietly as the kids. We fully expect our leaders to pour out crazy amounts of energy in physical proximity to our kids. And, fully expect said energy to be jump started by copious amounts of early morning coffee (hot coco).

Because, we're pretty game for anything. scavenger hunt to get to breakfast? Sure. Breakfast delivered to the cabin? Definitely. Shaving cream in the face? Why not?

But, take away that early morning time to make sure that the team is still functioning as a unit, and ain't nothing going to happen.

Well, actually, plenty would still happen. Just with leaders who were as stressed out as our kids would be if you dumped them in a cabin full of strangers.

Everything is awesome... when you're part of a team.

And, as annoying as the song is, I can see the kids learning the same lessons as we go through the week. Stretching out a hand to help each other across the low ropes course. Walking slowly enough for the one on crutches. Pulling together for dance circles.

Functioning smoothly as a unit that is so much bigger than a single cabin or a single church.

They are a church. The Church. 

A family. A unit. Pieces of a puzzle.

And, I can only hope that we're modeling their roles for them well. That, as we murmur "servant leadership" over the things that we ask our eighth graders to do, that it makes sense, because they are seeing servant leadership in us.

Okay. We don't murmur. No one would ever hear us over the chapel music if we murmured. Soft voices are generally reserved for waking children up or putting them to bed.

But, we say it often. Use it to explain why the eighth grade girls are at the back of the bus by the bathrooms. Why they're putting together "Bags of Sunshine" before chapel or playing with red hand paint during the extra space between free time and dinner.

Servant leadership. Servant leadership. Servant leadership.

They're eighth graders now, and we want to teach them that one of the perks of being up high is the privilege of putting yourself low. 

Of course, these are already the kids who solve low ropes problems by lying on the ground so that teammates can walk across their back, and who understand that "leading" through the woods during a night game means putting yourself out as the first one to be caught.

They're pretty solid on how this thing is supposed to work.

And, so, mainly, we just do camp. Cabin clean up and slop buckets and stacking chairs in the dining hall. But, also goofy boys who borrow my sweatshirt during a night game and never quite manage to give it back.

Throwing sixth graders off of the water toy and letting a group of them throw me off in return. Standing in line for what adds up to hours with seventh grade girls who want to swim out and play king of the mountain and eight grade girls who want to go down the giant slide.

We watch them blob each other and laugh as we skid over the slippery spot just before you get into the water.

They earn tickets to shove plates full of shaving cream in our faces, and we rub it all over theirs in return. Rub mud in their hair and bury their legs until they look like a mermaid. Stand in a fire hose and wash off muddy selves in an equally muddy lake.

Worship together and dance to everything from Fr*zen to Backstre*t Boys.

Slip 'n slide and Bro Ball and a giant relay where we sharpie their event numbers onto their arms so that no one forgets.

We go through two bags of gum balls, a tub of licorice, and five pounds of Sour Patch K*ds.

Giant swing. Low Ropes. Paintball. Game room.

Long talks about nothing and everything as we sit by the lake during free time or hike up to see a waterfall on the way to camp.

Stop to examine sunsets and still water and oddly shaped trees as we take the time to revel in everything. To give high fives during chapel and call each others' names every time that we pass. To prove, constantly, that we are here and we are family and this is beautiful.

This is mercy and this is grace. This is never being perfect but picking each other up when we fall and trying again.

This is ice packs and injuries and worship music blasting in the cabin.

Goofy skits and goofy clothes and superhero everything.

This is middle school camp.