Camp

Usually around this time of year, I’m with middle school girls at camp. 

Whether it’s in New Hampshire for the Girls’ Leadership Camp or Marvelous Girls’ at Summer at Hockaday, summer with middle school girls is what I do. 

So what happened at Camp Mystic has just broken my heart. 

You must understand, I see those campers.  

I see the girls at sleepaway camp for the first time. The extended hugs they give to the folks dropping them off. The timid way they join a circle for games. The shy smile while enjoying themselves, but are careful not to look too happy because they have to make sure no one sees them, for fear they’ll tell their parents or, you know, the people who keep food in the refrigerator. They have to NOT have a good time because they have to “hate camp,” even though they’re having the time of their lives.

Not only do I see them. I hear them.

I hear the campers laughing, giggling, playing, and learning. I hear them as they make new friends and keep the old. I hear them getting their lunch and are shocked they can choose to eat whatever they want, and drink as much chocolate milk as their heart desires. I hear them asking their counselor, “May I get more?” And the table full of interns and counselors responding in unison, “yep,” followed by smiles and laughter.

I see the campers winding down and being so sleepy, but unsure if they can sleep without their parents, after all, it is their first time away. So they pull out their teddy bear, even though they’re not babies (they make sure the other campers know that very important fact). The teddy bear just provides, ya know, comfort, and then other campers slowly show their comfort stuffy as well. Even the intern or the team leader pulls out their comfort friend, too. The campers sigh in relief that they’re not alone.

I hear the sniffling as they try to hide how scared they are. I hear the yawn as they fight sleep like a toddler. I hear the faint breathing of the camper who goes to sleep first, even if they said they weren’t tired.

I hear those recent high school graduates who signed up to be interns. I hear them memorizing their campers’ names to make sure each camper feels seen and heard, loved and liked.  I hear their laughter with the campers, so excited they get to be silly, too. I hear them going over the schedule for the next day. I hear them exhausted because they have poured everything they have into their campers, and they can’t wait to do it again. 

I see them. I hear them.

Which is why my heart absolutely aches for Camp Mystic. It aches for those families who, after guidance and testimonies from others, decided to send their little girl to camp. This was the right time. This was the right place.

It aches for the counselors who were there last year because they are wondering, what if…

My heart aches for the campers who were there just a week before, when it was sunny, noisy, hot, and so much fun. 

My heart aches for families who have lost everything because their child was their everything. And now their child, being on this side of heaven, is no more.

Aches. 

And I gotta say it because I’ve seen too much about it. I’ve heard too much to just let it slide and not address it. My heart doesn’t care who the parents voted for. 

My heart doesn’t care who the interns and counselors chose as first-time voters.

My heart aches for them. Period.

It aches for moms and dads. Grandmas and grandpas. Sisters and brothers. Aunts and uncles. Neighbors and friends. Even the pets waiting for their buddy to return home. 

My heart aches for all of them. Even as they try to make sense of all of this. Even as they try to believe what they’ve been told or taught or believed the day before this flood. Even as they blame and try not to blame. Even as they moan. Even as they cry. Even as they feel. Even as they can’t feel anymore.

In the meantime, we must mourn when others mourn and pray. 

And if you can, hug your middle school-aged person. Even if they roll their eyes or if they reluctantly hug you back. Hug them because they need it, even when they act like they don’t. Hug them because, well,  you can.