Here I am on Monday evening after a long day at my new job. I just noticed that this week is the start of summer camp and I am nearly in tears because I’m not there. I’m camp-sick.
Summer camp isn’t just your average summer camp. Its Burbee Wilderness camp. The first year I went I hated that I was being forced to go. I was 14. Every year after I counted down the days until I got there. The top bunk in the far corner was always mine. The oreo fluff was the highlight of the meal on the day they had it. My best bud Jack and I always sat next to each other. I felt God there, and only there. The lake was always murky, the songs were always acompanied by guitars and laughter, King Steve always put me to sleep when he read stories.
I loved camp as a camper and a counselor. I learned so much there about God, myself and my friends. Camp was a place that I could leave feeling cleansed.
Camp is a family. Camp Burbee was a family when the Methodist Church board closed it along with several other camps across Missouri for two years. Camp Burbee was a family when one of our own died suddenly in a car wreck. Camp Burbee is and will always be a home away from home.
The day I was asked to come back as a counselor was a shining moment for me. I hate that I’m not at camp this year–I hate that I had pretty much forgotten all about such an important part of my life until just a few minutes ago.
Every year, the second week of July. Camp starts. Kids show up with their stuff, some for the first time and some for their last week ever. Some unknowingly changed, some not knowing the changes about to happen.
Until next time…