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.
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