Come home: Reflections on camp

Video to go with blog post here.

Throughout my life, camp has been transformational for me. From the Ashram to Mount Traber to Malagash to Kingswood, there is something special about disconnecting from the world for a little while and making a conscious effort to connect with God together. Over the years, I have been a camper and have taken on a variety of leadership roles at camp. Earlier this month, I got to take part in camp once again.

A few months ago, I got a call from a board member of Malagash asking me if I would be willing to direct a week of camp. That involves planning programs and organizing activities. I was so thrilled to be asked, and gladly accepted! A while later, I got another call with another request- would I be willing to speak at camp?

Last summer at Kingswood, I had the opportunity to speak in chapel a few times. Sharing with these kids and adolescents was not only something I loved doing, the campers actually seemed to respond to it. When I spoke, I felt like something inside me came alive. There is a joy in doing something that you are good at, that you enjoy, and that helps others.

But you see, this fellow who called me-- he had no idea that this was true for me. He had never heard me speak, but he had just trusted that voice inside of him, what I believe was the prompting of the Holy Spirit. And the best part was, I would get to both direct and speak- all in partnership with very dear friends of mine. I could not have planned a better situation.

But of course I could not have planned it. It never would have occur to me. I have been listening to a worship song lately, a love song, if you will, from Jesus. And these are some words:
I have a plan for you.
I have a plan.
It's gonna be wild.
It's gonna be great.
It's gonna be full of me.

The week at camp happened a couple of weeks ago. And it was wild. It was great. It was full of God.
Despite challenges like my co-director recovering from a serious concussion and a visit from a big furry friend, I felt God's presence strongly that week.

In our Skype conversations about planning for camp, we somehow came up with an audacious plan: we would live out the story of the prodigal son.

The plan was as follows.

A young man who lived near the camp and had been going there for years would join as on the first day of camp. He would hang out with the kids, getting to know them a bit. But then, on the first night, he would say camp is no longer for him, that he has better things in store... and leave.
Throughout the week, the children would "travel" to different countries and get clues to where he had gone. 
Then on the last night, he would come back. We would all [hopefully] welcome him with joy and open arms. There would be a huge celebration.
Then, we would tell them the Parable of the Prodigal son and reveal that we had been teaching them a story about God the whole time.

Although we had not really firmed down many of the logistics of our plan, it was executed incredibly- even better than we could have ever hoped.

When our "prodigal son," Noah, left on Sunday night, the kids had a variety of emotions. Some chased after him. Some were sad. Others were mad. Others, confused: why would he leave such an awesome place as Malagash?

We had a ton of fun throughout the week, but every day kids would ask "Where is Noah?" or "When are we going to find him?" or speculate that they had just seen him in the lodge, in the woods, or at the beach. Sometimes they would pray for him to come home. We wondered if we were taking this too far.

On Thursday, it finally was time for him to come back to camp. We planned to smuggle him in to the beach while the kids were at the lodge. Then, while they were all standing in front of the lodge, he would walk up from the beach. What would the campers do? Would they be happy that he's back? Mad that he left in the first place? Would they even remember what he looked like after four days?

The anticipation was like that moment at graduation right before they call your name, except this time I was not worried if I would trip on the stage. I just wanted to see what the kids would do when they saw Noah come walking home. I could not wait until the moment they saw him. We looked at the clock: 4:30. It was time. We started pretending to explain a game to the children, just buying time. They did not know what was to occur.

And then-- all at once. The messenger, running up, ringing the bell, shouting "He's back! He's back!" as if announcing the end of a great war. The collective turning of eyes towards the ocean-- and the running as dozens of little feet sped toward their lost Noah, coming home. 

I have always loved homecoming stories. The Incredible Journey is possibly my all-time favourite movie, and all because of that one scene at the end. I don't want to give it away, but the pets come home. And I cry every single time. I think we all respond to homecoming stories. There is something very right about them- about returning to the place we belong, and the immense joy that goes with that.

All week long, we had told the children the oldest and greatest story ever told:
The Bible, we had said, was a story about who God is and his plan for the world.
We had told them about how God had created the world to be good.
We had told them about how God created us to be in relationship with him.
We had told them about how we had run away from that relationship with him.
We had told them about how God had given everything to restore that relationship.
We had told them that they are a part of this story.

All week long, they had been learning about God's love for them: from the chapel sessions to cabin devotionals to the everyday happenings around camp: it all pointed to God.

And now they were running towards the lost son.

That evening, we had a huge party. We decorated the lodge. We got them to dress up in their camp best and wear party hats. We gave Noah the seat of honour. We served them their food as if we were waiters. And later that evening, we told them about the prodigal son. We told them that we can always come home to God- and He will always welcome us.

There will always be a place for you at my table.

In all this teaching campers how much God loved them, I was overwhelmed with His love yet again. He is the Father in that story in Luke 15, the Father who waits. The Father who runs, the Father who celebrates. He is the Father who lets me spend a week with a bunch of nine-year-olds even when I thought I was getting too old for this camp stuff. He is the Father who delights to give His children GOOD GIFTS. And, just like the son in the story, I love what God gives. And, just like the son in the story, sometimes I forget what the real gift is. At camp, I was reminded once again: God himself is the real gift. Returning to our home-- right relationship with Him-- that is the most precious thing of all. 

Back to the Garden

"This was Adam and Eve's perfect world. Not just fruit and fig leaves, but an entire race of people stretching their cognitive and creative powers to the limit to build a society of balance and justice and joy. Here the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve would learn life at the feet of the Father, build their city in the shadow of the Almighty, create and design and expand within the protective confines of his kingdom. The blessing of this gift? A civilization without greed, malice or envy, progress without pollution, expansion without extinction. Can you imagine it? A world in which Adam and Eve's ever-expanding family would be provided the guidance they needed to explore and develop their world such that the success of the strong did not involve the deprivation of the weak. Here government would be wise and just and kind, resources plentiful, war unnecessary, achievement unlimited and beauty and balance everywhere. This was God's perfect plan: the people of God in the place of God dwelling in the presence of God"
-Sandra L. Richter, The Epic of Eden

This summer, I am gardening.

It began with the transplants. Some things need lots of time to grow, but our Canadian summer is often an afterthought of the year, as if in parenthesis in a sentence. Fall Winter Spring (Summer) . So we planted the onions and the peppers and the tomatoes in neat trays with soil from a bag, and we placed the trays in a climate-controlled greenhouse.

Some seeds we planted outdoors, right into the ground where they will live, tilling the ground first to break up the soil. The tiller made the garden, formerly a desolate strip of brown ground, seem alive, with straight rows and labels at the end of the rows. Peas. Snowpeas. Carrots. Lettuce. Everything has a different way to plant it, a different depth, different distance apart. I cut up seed potatoes and put them in the ground, careful for the eyes to be pointed towards the sky. The old giving birth to the new.

In June, for the first time, we enjoyed the bounty from our garden as the rhubarb ripened. In fact, we had more than enough rhubarb: enough to stew and can, enough to make into rhubarb muffins and rhubarb cakes, and a lot to give away. Now, we are enjoying strawberries. Each time we visit the strawberry patch, more are ripe and ready to harvest.

I have loved gardening this summer, and even though I don't do half as much as my parents do, I still enjoy it, and I still see God's kingdom in everything.

I have been reading The Epic of Eden, a book about how the Old Testament, and the Bible as a whole, is a story about bringing us back to the garden. God had a vision of what the world will be like. The fall from the garden in Genesis 3 did not change that vision, and God is trying to restore us, to redeem us to being the people of God, in the place of God, dwelling in the presence of God.

I like that the Garden of Eden is, well, a garden.

Because gardening teaches us a lot about who God is.

Gardens are beautiful. The Kingdom of God is beautiful.

Gardens take a lot of effort to plant and maintain. Our lives, lived intentionally with the goal of seeing God's glory, also need discipline.

We can't really control how our gardens grow. Sometimes, we take away all the weeds, we plant the correct distance apart and depth, we plant at the right time, and then things just don't grow. A frost comes and destroys the plants. A bird eats the seed. A deer nibbles at the leaves. Sometimes we don't know the reason. And sometimes, though we don't do anything much, a plant grows. We cannot control God's spirit. He only needs us to obedient: we prepare the soil, we plant, but it is God who makes the plant grow. It is the same, you see, with the Kingdom. We wait, and he comes.

We get rid of the bad stuff. Weeds. Potato bugs. Have you ever opened up a cob of corn only to find a worm has eaten half of it? That is the worst. It is the same with God. The fruit is no good if we don't remove the things that ruin the fruit. This is true in our own lives. There are rotten things that want to grow in our hearts. We must not let them. And we must remove them quickly, before they take over. The longer we let the rotten things grow, the harder it is to get rid of them. Anyone who has ever put off weeding their garden can tell you that.

We garden together. In my family, gardening is a communal activity. For me, it is a way to learn from my parents. It is the same in the Kingdom. Being a Christian isn't a solo activity. You can do it solo, but pretty soon you reach the limitations of yourself and your knowledge. I don't think I could garden solo. The ivy plant that died on my dorm room windowsill is a testament to that. My parents are passing on their knowledge about planting and harvesting, and one day I will teach someone.

We share our harvest. I've been helping out with my church's youth group this summer, which I love. One night I brought a few bunches of rhubarb with the hope that someone could take it off my hands. It was fun to share the rhubarb with some international students who had never tried our sour treat! When God gives us gifts, it is no fun to keep them for ourselves. And if my family's garden is any indication, he delights to give us so much that we absolutely have to give it away. My family has a thing for squash, for some reason. Squash don't take too much effort to grow and they tend to produce a lot of fruit. So every year we fill our cold room with mostly squash. If we tried to keep it all for ourselves and eat it throughout the year, it would decay. The only good thing is to give it away.

Everyone can garden. Our neighbour, just a young boy, came over one day when we were planting the leek and onion transplants. He helped us place them in the rows. We have other neighbours who are retired who spent hours a day in their garden. Young and old can garden. When I was in Mozambique, mostly everyone in the country had their machamba, a little plot of land where people grew produce for their family. Gardening is universal. All ages, all ethnicities, all ability levels-- everyone can garden. Just as everyone can know God, and be fully a part of His Kingdom.

And the final point about gardening and the Kingdom of God:

There is always enough.  Do you know how small a carrot seed is? It seems like it will not be enough. God makes it into enough. He takes what little we have to bring and multiplies it, makes it abundant.

*Inspired by Jesus' parables that tend to have lots of references to gardens, agriculture, growth and the like.*