They get me

Most of my friends don't go to pool parties with Fun Noodles and dunking once a week in the summer. Most of my friends haven't recently cleaned up puke at 3 a.m. after a 14-year-old ate too much junk food or signed medical forms for children who are not their own on the beach when the 911 is called and the fire department and paramedics are on the scene. Most of my friends don't regularly talk with girls who have eating disorders, balance budgets close to a hundred grand and done public speaking on the same day. And I doubt most of them have guzzled down a smoothie made of cup cakes, Ovaltene, mushrooms and apricot juice...for their job.

Most of my friends aren't in youth ministry. But at camp, everyone is. Everyone gets it. Everyone understands. Everyone laughs.

Each year, I look forward to summer camp like a 5-year-old anticipating a trip to Disney World. I count down the days and the weeks and am oftentimes giddy while I pack the night before having planned it in my head for much longer. I email my camp friends and we Facebook like teenagers.


Coming home from camp is a little happy sad. I'm tired and looking forward to my bed, real food and being back in Austin, but unpacking is not nearly as fun as packing, and when I tell someone that the 8th graders crawled into the bathroom cabinet, no one laughs to the point of tears. No one understands why Mark got a pink belly ring or why Callie and I scarfed down absolutely disgusting camp food as if it were a delicacy so girls would know that it's OK to eat at each meal and you won't get fat.

I love camp so much because at camp, people "get me." They understand the thing about which I'm so passionate. They understand why it's a big deal to take the senior girls to Whataburger at midnight. They, too, have sat with a weeping girl as she confesses her past, wondering now if God can forgive her, and they, too, have had the joy of looking that girl in the eyes and telling her that Christ died so she can wear white on her wedding day. They, too, have guzzled smoothies for the Blend-0-Matic skit and screamed out loud, jumping up and down in worship one minute and allowing someone to cry on their shoulder the next. They feel at home in Gunnison, a tiny town thousands of miles from where they live. They've held the hands of kids who want to end their lives and spent late nights praying - begging - God to heal their hurts. They've laughed at all too much bodily-function humor...and instigated a little the bit themselves. They, too, have sung boy-band songs out loud in big, white vans and carry medical release forms in their backpacks, right next to the Frisbee for a pick up game of Ultimate.

They are youth workers from all over the country.

It's a real fraternal feeling at camp. I see faces of people I've known for years, crossing paths for one or two weeks a summer but knowing that if I were to fill a stand of my biggest life fans, they'd all human farkle to be in the front row. They offer me jobs. They encourage me to thrive in mine.

I am blessed through camp. It's a reminder of why I do what I do. It's an encouragement to never quit just because it's exhausting. It's a place where I feel loved and people truly get this part of me.