Happy Campers

We are back from another week in the sand and dirt and woods of west Michigan. Our ankles are covered in mosquito bites, our shoulders are slightly pink still from too much sun, and we are, for a brief time, sated with s’mores and hobo pies.
And our tanks are full again– we’ve spent a week in worship and study and play with our extended church family so we are, again, buoyed and hopeful.
It was a very good week. We’ve always camped in the same area– within two tents of Tent 13.5 — and this year we packed up and moved East across the camp to the mid 30s. Our new spot was near good friends and we reveled in late night card games, chats around the communal fire, and big “family dinners” that everyone contributed to. Our rhythms changed with the new location– the family dinners were slower, more boisterous. We were not labored with tending to just our own needs– fire, food, shelter– and so had more time to just Be.
It is good to head into this new school year with the confidence of who we are and to whom we belong– Jack needed that but so did we. It’s the best thing about family camp– all the generations tumbling upon each other so that there are always extra hands to hold the little people and extra advice for those in the pre-teen trenches. And so much love. Love for even the middle-agers who are tired and worn down from work and routine.
There is balm in the sunsets. There is rest in pulling our chairs out into the shadow waters and letting Lake Michigan lap over us while we read and talk and soak up the sun. There is joy in the singing at Firebowl. Convivial warmth in the shared meals and trivia games and walks along the trails. There are old friends and new friends and reconnections.
And there is dirt, and grime, and uncleaned bathrooms, mice in the walk-in coolers, chipmunks in the tents, and worn out children in need of a nap. There is patience required in the long walk to the ice-cooler or the wiping down of sandy tables and the shaking out of sleeping bags.
What a gift it all is.
If you aren’t a camper it’s horrifying– the filth and the faint whiff of mildew in a platform tent that is an open invitation to the little wood creatures and Daddy Long Legs. If you are an extreme introvert it’s a nightmare of having to talk to people everywhere– the classes and showers and beach…
But if you ARE a camper– all that lovely green around you is a wonderful thing. To hear birds and the skittering of tiny, furried feet is music. To be surrounded by people who reflect back 1 John 4:7-8 in their laughter and kindness and offers to toast a marshmallow for you… And what a pure and holy thing it is to be out of cell phone range– to see that “No Service” pop up on your iPhone and know that you are not for this world. Ah– that is a sacred offering in itself.

We store it up as best we can– we pack it up as surely as we pack up the tarps and bungee cords and camp dishes. Throughout the long year ahead we’ll find remnants, even in this thicker place, — a piece of a song or the whiff of wood smoke. And those remnants will stir the memory of who we are, what we are called to be, and how much we are loved.

Or at least that’s the hope.

September 20, 2015 — the night we wait for the Hogwarts letter…

Dear JackRabbit,

Unbelievably, incredibly, completely without fairness or justice– you will turn 11 tomorrow. ELEVEN. (When you’ve only been 10 for 5 minutes. And alive for maybe a week.)

Our middle school kid is growing up too fast– you love to tease me about this– even while, sometimes, you are so sweetly sensitive to it. We can’t slow down time– and there is very little about this year that I would change– other than it went by too fast.

This year has taken you to so many magical places– you slept in the Natural History Museum in New York City, made a snow ball in the shadow of Mont Blanc, spent two weeks in Deutschland without us (stories that you dole out to your Dad and I that amaze us), relished a week in the woods at church camp, hit happy hour on the fancy Club floor of a Chicago hotel, spent a week with the Grandparents at the Cottage, and learned the Shema at family camp. This summer was insane– you spent a month in Europe between Germany and France. It was fantastic– you’re still pulling out memories and churning them around.

When you finally got home you fell into Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (only because your mother’s copy of HP & the Philosopher’s Stone is missing) and came out the other side having made lifelong friends with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. (Whew! We had concerns that you might be a Muggle…)

You played soccer, read a shelf (or two… or three) of new books [The poor Nate-the-Great series only lasted a few weeks you went through them so fast.], and rediscovered the joys of riding your bike. [Stubborn boy that you are you hardly touched your wheels last year after a nasty fall.]

You graduated 5th grade and met your goal of straight As and figured out that the only consequence to being labeled a nerd is that most of the people that jeer at nerds end up working for one.

You sang in choir, acted in the church play, joined (officially! no longer just a mascot!) the Youts, and memorized the Fruits of the Spirit. And, in the airport while waiting to fly out to Germany you told a youth group there (from Detroit?) that you’ve decided you are going to be a pastor. (An announcement that didn’t surprise us at all.)

Dad and I are so, so grateful for you– and that we get to be your parents. We’re both so glad that you are still eager to cuddle with us both and have someone snuggle you off to bed. (Dad gets most of the night time chats. I get the morning chats. It’s a good trade.) We love your heart and how big it is for trying to understand God’s Word and what it means to be Christian… even while we are beginning to experience glimpses of the sullen teenage moments to come.

This September is bringing so many changes for you with Middle School and band (finally!) and Youts Group– but, remember, Bug– we are here to weather it with you. You’ve got this.

Today was practically perfect. It’s one that we will remember a long, long time. You participated in the Youth Service at church– several people commented on your poise at sharing your scripture passage (Deut. 6:4-7) and your comfort with serving communion. It came as a little big of shock to count the heads of “my” Youts and realize that your familiar, thick-haired one was in the count!  After church you helped us get the house ready for your Very Harry Birthday party– we turned it upside down to celebrate Potter style and you loved it. “Mom! This was the best birthday party ever!” (of course two minutes later you asked, “What should we do next year?”) It was fun to watch you and your buddies tear through the house and yard with your wands making up new games.

But my favorite was when everyone was gone and you snuggled up to both of us to say thank you and that you had a wonderful time.

We are, too– we are, too.

I love you, sweet boy– Try to make this year a little less fast, please?

Mom

P.S. I have it on very good authority that your Hogwarts letter is due to arrive tonight.

Another Dad day.

In a few minutes it will be another long Dad Day. A normal Wednesday– breakfast with Jack, school for him/work for us, a morning meeting, Jack’s choir practice and dinner at church, 5th grade homework, bed… but pulsing throughout the day is a semi-conscious awareness that 19 years ago we were called back from our drive to our little apartment to the hospital where Dad was suddenly dying.

The details of that day are both stark and vague– and, for the most part, they are kept at bay with much better memories of Dad– but on this day the veil is a little thinner and they come parading with a terrible affrontery and hideously perform shadow puppets under the rest of the day’s activity.

Dad is missed on every day– so this day doesn’t make a difference other than to bring to the foreground the realization of how much time has passed since we’ve heard his braying laugh or joyful singing or even the illogic of his terrible temper. It’s still unfathomable to me that he never held Jack or saw my nieces grow up into the lovely young woman that they are– but only knew them as babies.

The grief now– almost twenty years later– comes when I hear one of the kids at the university complain about their parents. Worse is overhearing the confessions that come to the professor next door– just this week a girl dully related that her father was non-existent in her life. His alcoholism had ruined her childhood and she’d long grown out of wishing that he was a dad. Her voice carried into my adjacent office and I was sad that I’d been so wealthy and she’d been so poor in the same area.

I’m missing the Sister who has taken herself on a vacation this week. We usually meet up on Dad day and only briefly acknowledge it. A long-established pattern not out of stoicism but out of the need to be more like our father in the way we (first) raised up her girls and now Jack. We are proud when we are privy to some tale of Dad’s legendary generosity. We soak up the stories now– because it is rarer and rarer that we are recognized as “Bruce’s girls”… so many of the people we’ve added to our circles came after we buried Dad. I forget sometimes how few people there still are (that we see regularly) that know me as one of his daughters. Only a handful of people at church. Just a few at work. One or two at Jack’s school.

Oldest friend, Melle, reached out on Sunday with a long text about feeling as though Dad were right there with her in the church they were visiting. Hearing him sing (“belt out”) during a favorite hymn. He’s visited her a few times in strong sensation or dreams– always when I am most missing him. Melle is practical– the Diana to my Anne– so I never question his visits to her. I was probably jealous in the beginning that he would show up so vividly in her dreams– when she’s not even a dreamer– until I realized how much lovelier it was to be given this gift from her now and then. Never expected. But always welcomed.

September 21, 2014

Dear Jack,

Wow oh wow oh wow. On Sunday, at 4:01 p.m., my baby will be a decade old. TEN YEARS. We are still discovering you– finding out new things every day– and you are ten years old!?… wow.

You’ve grown up quite a bit in just this last year. Not only in height– all of your jeans and school trousers were (practically overnight) flood pants– but in giving us glimpses into what the Man version of Jack will be. Your imagination grew this year, too. Your stories about Vor and your descriptions of things you’ve seen or read are far more elaborate. Your anxiety grew, too– the dark side of having a good imagination.

A lot happened this year that I think you’ll remember. You started fourth grade so excited to FINALLY have a man teacher– the wonderful Mr. S. You and your buddies soaked up his sense of humor and loved the nicknames he gave each of you (Jack-a-roni). Just as you started getting into cool projects with the iPad and the school year felt settled-into everything went topsy-turvy. Mr. S left room 14 for a principal job in another district. It was hard to watch you and the other fourth graders process that– it was a loss and a blow. I was proud when, after you admitted how sad you were, you thought of him and how good of an opportunity it was for Mr. S to see his dreams come true (even when it meant your dreams got a bit derailed). Mrs. N had big shoes to fill– it took all of us– students and parents– a while to get used to a new gait. But you did. And when your grades dipped you listened to us and worked hard to get them back up to snuff again. This year with Mrs. B has started so beautifully– your grades are stellar and we’ve gotten rave reviews of how responsible and respectful you are in her class. (And your Mom’s heart just grew a few sizes…)

This was the year you sang a solo in the Christmas play– you were one of the Three Kings of Orient Are (were) and Daddy and I about burst to hear your voice rise up so clear and true. You’ve served the church as an acolyte this year. You take that role seriously and only complained a little when the bulk of the Sundays fell to you because you were the one that was usually there. You’ve read just about as much of the Bible as your Dad and I– which is wonderful and scary all at the same time for us. That amazing memory of yours has helped us several times when we are working on our Bible study– you’ve got the kings and chronology down cold.

Nine year old Jack had a lot of adventures, too. We celebrated your ninth year with a trip to Chicago and the venerable Field museum to see the dinosaurs and the case after case of animals. You had two seasons of soccer with Coach Aric where you’ve developed some mad goalie skills. There have been birthday parties and sleepovers (still can’t believe our plastered ceilings survived that last one!) and movie dates with AunT. You spent a weekend with Maddie and Keegan at their college townhouse and a weekend with the newlyweds in their first apartment. Over Spring Break we took a quick trip to the ROM in Toronto (more dinosaurs!) and to play at Niagara Falls. This summer it was just you and me– no Nanny McMaddie or Kat’s Boot Camp– so there was a lot of mornings where you went into the office armed with Legos, books, and DVDs. (Thank goodness for your iPad and Amazon Prime!)And there was a battery of camps– science and soccer and drama mixed in with your first full week at Wesley Woods and a week with the grandparents at the Lake.

We really saw how much you’ve grown the night we couldn’t find you at Family Camp. While Daddy, your cousins, a slew of friends, and I fanned out across the camp looking for our lost sheep– you were happily sitting at your buddy Reese’s camp fire with her family. When we finally had you in our arms you said, “But Mom– I didn’t know where you were so I made sure to stay with a grown up.”

You finally got a boy cousin this year in Tyler. He and Maddie chose you to be the Master of Rings at their wedding. You were ridiculously handsome in your tie and trousers that matched the groomsmen. You swallowed your nervousness about being in front of so many people when you finally understood that it wasn’t about you but about Maddie and Tyler. We saw that click in your head when you realized that you are so loved by them. (And nice touch, escorting AunT down the aisle with the light saber. You helped her with her nerves that day, too.)

You have a good set of friends. AJ & Brady, Colin & Gabe, and Max– there is no end to the fun in hearing the six of you chatter about Minecraft and school and sports and StarWars. You are starting to learn that there is a lot to be said about association– and you’ve chosen a group of friends that rallies around each other.

Best of all you are still our baby. You still snuggle up in our bed most mornings with the pups and your parents. This is when we hear a lot about what you’re thinking about or worrying on. You can beat us both on Wii MarioKart. You love a good game of Uno or Guess Who or Heads Up (we love when you pick ‘Accents’ for the category. Your Australian accent cracks us up every time). You love having guests for dinner (especially AunT) and are pathetically sad when the answer to your, “Is anyone coming over tonight?” is no.

I don’t know how we got to ten years without blinking. But these have been, without question, the very best ten years your Dad and I have ever known. You have made our world so wonderful (and wonder-filled). You’ve deepened our faith in God. You are an amazing kid.

A lot is planned in the next few days and weeks– a family dinner, a party with your friends, and a big birthday surprise for you. You are so, so loved.

Diplodicus. Most.

Mom