This year at camp, the kids prove themselves unstoppable.
Prove themselves, gentle, thoughtful, brave, ridiculous, magnificent. Heroes who understand, instinctively, the sanctity of an open grasp.
And, so, after a week of quests and tears and courage, we knight them.
One by one, under the cover of a brilliant net of stars, their cabins watch as we call them out by name and meaning, read a verse, tap their shoulders with a sword that is longer than many of their growing selves, and quote a benediction.
It's early morning by the time we wake the last cabin, trail them in a single file line behind a silent, sword wielding man, call them forward to kneel before they quite understand what is happening. Read the verses that were picked out especially for them. Send them back to their cabins clutching the cards that will make their way onto the bus with us, the words that they will go over and compare.
Because, this is who they are.
Half asleep, and under the cover of darkness, they are ready to believe the things that our leader hearts would tell them about the truth of their identity. When daylight returns and we fall into the rhythm of packing bags and taking pictures, of stopping for snacks and twisting ponytails into the boys' hair, we can do our best to let our actions match our words, and to pray that they remember.
Remember who they were this week.
Because, this week, they were unstoppable.
When spider bites swell up like golf balls, when they are throwing up or fighting headaches, when anxiety refuses to let them sleep, and when we lock them out of their cabin to deal with bed bugs. Unstoppable.
When we give them a new cabin leader 80% through the week, skip the things that they thought were going to happen, wake them up in the middle of the night, or delay the start of games by forty long wait-in-the-foyer minutes, unflappable, unstoppable.
When they are dealing with emotions and realities that middle schoolers shouldn't have to handle, when the lies in their heads and the fears in their hearts fight against them every step of the way, unstoppable.
My sixth grade girls barely pause to blink when we tell them that we can't go back to the cabin, simply gather up their Bibles and lead the way to the "fairy house" that they helped to build for a night game that didn't actually happen. Change into their swimsuits before games, and then stay in them through lunch, low ropes, free time, dinner, chapel, cabin time. Night hike in flip flops and the clothes that our heroes of staff members have brought back from the laundromat and the store. Curl up into freshly cleaned sleeping bags in a room that still smells like heat but is now free of unwelcome guests.
Let the anxiety and the uncertainty be soothed by a steady stream of instructions, by the knowledge that we are doing this together, by the presence of the One who is bigger than our unexpected adventures, and by the steely determination that runs through their bones.
And, somewhere in the midst of that, they start to ask questions, questions about hearing God and about who this Jesus character actually was. Questions about time and space and the sorts of theology that we boil down into sound effects before they break into ridiculous giggles. Because, the best sorts of theology occur in this middle space between laughter and tears, between joy and sorrow, where we're too busy running to catch up with the Divine to stop and build an idol, enraptured by the one who is pulling us along, "Further up and further in."
This week, they were capable.
Capable of finding leaders in the dark and bringing back "pearls" to earn points for their team, capable of doing things that they thought that they were too afraid to accomplish, jumping from the blob, lifting their hands during music, becoming part of a team filled with virtual strangers, and folding new friends into their existing family clusters.
Water wars take far longer to set up than what we had planned for, but a couple of kids catch the vision and continue to work without me, solving problems and running their tails off while I work with a few leaders on a separate situation, slipping into their swimsuits at the last moment without murmuring a word of complaint.
They give up portions of their free time to carry (and test) a giant catapult, to track points and help me with the endless math that comes with not having a standard scoring system for competitive games. To cluster up and hold space for each other when someone is hurting. To pull out the orbeez and bury their hands, because they are capable of being grown up this week, but also of being little enough to spend an hour on sensory play, tension melting from their shoulders the way that it does when they fish a fidget spinner or koosh ball out of my bag.
Capable of throwing themselves from the zipline tower and completing the high ropes course, so proud of themselves afterwards that they tremble with the excitement of it. And, capable of honoring their own boundaries and keeping both feet firmly on the ground.
Capable of sword fighting with leaders and solving riddles and memorizing Bible verses for the first times in their lives.
We canoe and swim and have dance parties in the cabin, set them loose to run through the darkened woods with pool noodle swords and cardboard shields, and dress up their leaders in goofy costumes, because, really, we're playing just as much as the kids are.
They pour everything that they have into music and prayer, bury each other in hugs and hand holds and the physical sorts of affection that middle schoolers speak like language. Pull leaders aside to talk about their triumphs and their sorrows. Watch each other like hawks. Trust us for hugs and bandaids and remembered promises and practice asking for help when they need it.
Because, these kids, these ones who lick rocks and blast worship music on the bus ride home. These ones who would rather sit and play with glow sticks through a movie that never actually works than try to play a night game when their friends are too sick or tired to join in. These kids are unstoppable.
Unstoppable. Capable. Gentle.
Gentle when the 6th grade girls are still talking on the chapel floor and the 8th grade boys tiptoe past, silently closing the doors so that the littler ones can have the space that they need.
When the same 6th grade girls are so bothered by the boys' lack of door decorations that they plot and scheme and count heads out on the volleyball court until they are sure that the coast is clear to put up lights and a welcome sign -- only to be caught by a leader and have their plans fizzle out on the spot.
When the same 6th grade girls are so bothered by the boys' lack of door decorations that they plot and scheme and count heads out on the volleyball court until they are sure that the coast is clear to put up lights and a welcome sign -- only to be caught by a leader and have their plans fizzle out on the spot.
Gentle when we split into teams for capture the flag and their greatest excitement is that, this time, we aren't competing. This time, they get to arrange things so that friends are together. This time you can't get out, can't lose, don't have to worry about anything but running through the woods like a goofball. And, if we spend a few minutes the next morning collecting swords and shields that were left scattered in the bushes, no one complains, because, last night, they were Percy Jackson.
Heroes to the younger ones who come to them for hugs and comfort and constant encouragement. Heroes to to the older ones who borrow their leaders and puff up with pride at their accomplishments.
They open up circles to accommodate new bodies and skip their favorite activities in order to be present with friends. Lift each other through low ropes courses like it's the most natural thing in the world. Analyze games based on their accessibility to each of the unique kids that we have brought with us, and somehow manage to be gentle even as they plow each other over in giant inflatable bumper balls. Sassy. Sarcastic. Stubborn. Gentle.
And, unstoppable.
And, unstoppable.
