threads

I don't think I had even begun to have an idea where I was going, 

but wherever it was, that was where I wanted to go.

-Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow

I started reading Jayber Crow one year ago, and didn't pick it back up until I decided to make time to read before I fall asleep at night--all of three weeks ago. If it takes 30 days to form a habit, I'm almost there, and Wendell Berry has climbed to the top of the list of people I'd give anything to spend a day with. 

J. Crow, or Jayber as he comes to be called, ponders the above thought as he is ploughing through cold floodwater with all of his possessions in a cardboard box.  He's been a drifter, a rambler, first running away from things familiar and then returning to find his affections renewed for what he left. His realization in returning, for that's what he was doing as he sloshed with his box, is strangely, hauntingly descriptive of this pattern in my life.

One year ago.  One year ago I was probably sitting right here, in the same spot on my couch, staring squinty-eyed down the black hanging shelves that keep a varied multitude of kitcheny things. I remember specifically not liking the uneven distribution of kitcheny things and not being able to change the distribution of kitcheny things because part of the shelves extend over the refrigerator, which is completely impractical space to store things used everyday. I now think the uneven distribution of kitcheny things is just the way I like it. 

One year ago. One year ago I had just moved to Asheville, just began nesting in my first house after college. While it is true that I moved into a house, a cabin is a more descriptive word for my house. The Staff Cabin, complete with Johnny Roosevelt the Ancient Buck. I hung curtains, arranged vases, displayed magazines, stocked vases with flowers, and nothing masked the sight of that buck head glaring at me. Tradition held him there and I wasn't about to remove him. And I kind of liked the classy woodsy touch, dressed with twinkly lights (less classy, but whatever. I'm not above it).  

One year ago. One year and two weeks, actually. September 24th will become one of those dates for which I'll instantly understand the significance, like February 6th or July 15th or the year 1066.  September 24th, the day I started my first real job. Tracing it to the beginning always leaves me a little dumbfounded. When I was 12, I decided I wanted to live in the mountains somewhere, at some point in my life. When I was 14, I decided I wanted to spend six weeks working at camp. When I was 17, I dared to dream that I might work at camp as a "real job" someday. When I was 19, I had a semester of college under my belt and the full-grown desire to work in a nonprofit. That desire was planted after my freshman year of high school when we made and sold 'Felipe's Revolutionary Salsa' to benefit a nonprofit working in sub-Saharan Africa; after that I wanted to make and sell salsa for the rest of my life. When I was 21,  I drove home on a break from a school I picked partly to be close to camp and these mountains, realizing that these mountains would would always hold part of home for me. Now I am almost 24, and I can see how unswervingly faithful the Lord has been to bring each of these desires together: I work for a nonprofit in the heart of these blue hills, which is the camp where I did so much growing up. He is the Grand Weaver, artful master of something beautiful.       

One year ago. One year ago I didn't know many people outside of campland and didn't know how I would meet them.  In a few weeks, one year ago I would meet several of the people whom I now call close friends. In fact, I get to live with two of them in a house that is not the Staff Cabin and is in the middle of town. I am happy, so happy, for community in that way. 

Life now looks really different from what I imagined it would look like a year ago. I don't know what exactly it is I wanted a year ago, but I wanted to get there. Like Jayber, I wanted to find a home for the restlessness that has characterized my teens and early twenties. I wanted security. This is ironic for a number of reasons, not the least of which are the incredibly consistent threads I can now see woven together. Consistency is not the opposite of restlessness, but it definitely isn't a synonym.

I don't know what exactly it is that I want now, but I have a better idea. Most days, anyway. I know that I want to get there, wherever 'there' is. In a year (and some), I've let go of dreams, found some new ones, walked through seasons of incredible happiness and am coming through the seemingly unbearable grief of the all-at-once kind of loss. It has not been a smooth road. Some days are sunny and I feel light and free. Some days I wake up feeling that kind of "steel magnolia" frailty, the kind  that Sally Field so perfectly captured in the movie of the almost-same name. You bend until you feel you might break, and find that you are not breakable.

It is not the way I thought the first year (and some) of my independent twenties should be. But is is, and I think it is a huge mistake to wish that it were not. I have been running from what is in order to arrive at I think should be. I do not want to waste anymore of this beautiful journey in the lane of "if only". I would rather be sloshing through the floodwaters, drawn back home to the only place of security proven trustworthy. The threads are scattered now, but I trust I will one day see the beauty of the piece.

   

you can't stay here

One of my favorite things ever happens at dusk almost every night during the summer. The grove of trees near IROC and the zipline are home to like a zillion fireflies, and they make the trees sparkle as they do whatever they do. Its magical. I had a thought one night that I wanted to be seven again and catch a bunch of them in one of the Mason jars occupying the shelf in the kitchen. I didn't, because I remembered what it was like when I did that when I was seven. It was so disappointing; the fireflies looked creepy and crawly and didn't twinkle as much when they were all crammed into the jar. The fireflies weren't made for that jar.  Neither are we made for this mountain.  

It feels so empty with staff and campers gone! There are no kiddos squealing down the zipline, no music blaring from the dishpit, no one to take over the staff cabin, which is almost back to normal for me. Camp road is strangely still, and the Dining Hall porch is no longer the center for games, reflection, or good conversation. I'm wearing my Chacos less, I wear real clothes when I go out, and yes, I still check Instagram impulsively to see if there are any throwback posts. Whatever is next this fall is quickly approaching, and I'm fighting feeling empty as well.


Several conversations are still hanging in the air in my headspace, conversations about how camp is a place of safety, where staff can be themselves and experience true community, however rapid-fire that community may form. Conversations that inevitably end with "I DON'T WANNA LEAVE!" And why would you?

Where else do you give so much of yourself and have an unbelievable amount of fun doing it?
Where else do you see the body of Christ working and moving together towards one goal?
Where else are you challenged to follow Christ wholeheartedly every day, choosing others above yourself?
Where else do you get to worship every day beside a whole room full of people your age? 
Where else do you do ridiculous things late at night and still find joy in getting up in the morning to do it all over again?
Where else can you be poured into as you pour out physical, emotional, and spiritual energy?
Where else do you form relationships that turn conventionality on its head by wading deep in a short amount of time?
Where else does food cooked over a campfire actually taste good?
Where else do you see bears leafing through your stuff on the reg?
Oh yeah, and where else do you break into dance in large groups?

What if the answer to most of those questions wasn't just camp?  What if camp was not the ultimate place to experience some of these things, but training for real life? You don't want to go back to normal life, you said when you left. You don't want to fall back into old patterns, I heard you say. You're frustrated that your college/high school/life friends aren't like camp friends, you told me. You are afraid of getting complacent again, you confessed.

Don't. Experience real change. You were not made to stay on that mountain. You were not made to live in the State of Hype of which camp is the capital. You were not made to huddle like fireflies in my seven year-old self's jar.

You were made for the mountains and the valleys, the times of hype and the quiet times, the period of bearing fruit and the process of growth to bear more fruit. You were made to take what you've learned and experienced and live it out in the places you live every day. You were made to be a functioning part of THE Body, not to stay clustered in the palm of the hand on the body.

That night in the gorgeous chapel as the rain rolled down the backlit windows, you told stories of how you learned to trust God more because you saw Him provide strength and patience for you every day. You said you had never been sharpened by other followers of Christ in the way that you had this summer. You said you depended on Christ because you had to, and that you experienced love from others in a way that blew you away.

What you experienced wasn't limited to camp. It was Christ.    

Camp is an extraordinary, breath-taking space of time and place. Camp is a place of growing up and growth, of learning responsibility, compassion, initiative, and humor. Camp is a place where you can be your good, bad, and ugly self and experience grace in tangible ways. Camp is a place where relationships form and spark quickly and deeply. Camp is a place of unmatched silliness and fun.

But camp is to everyday life what the kiddie pool is to the Olympic pool. The summer was pivotal because Jesus was in floaties hanging out at the center of the pool. He showed up and gave swimming lessons. The opportunities to know Him more, to see Him at work, to serve selflessly, and to walk with other people beside you are multiplied when you immerse yourself in the Olympic pool. Don't miss out on them because you miss playing in the kiddie pool.  


Take the growth, take the healing, take the discipline, take the relationships, take the failures with you as you figure out what the next season looks like. You've been scattered from the mountain, but you've been equipped to handle the valleys.  You saw God work in the lives of your campers; look for Him working in your roommates. You saw yourself grow because it was hard. Look for new growth in a month or two.  You failed and were held accountable; be teachable when it happens again.  You experienced joy because you were where you were supposed to be this summer. Ask for that same joy for the remainder of the year.

You can't stay here any more than those fireflies could stay in the jar. You'd burn out. You'd lose your luster.  Go, be light to your world. Depend on Christ for strength and seek Him on the daily. Use your gifts and be confident that God is with you, working in and through you even when you can't see results. Be bold, the way you were with your campers and with each other. And know that in your going you are part of an incredible display of wonder, made more full by the scattering.