Going to camp….

Campfire

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Not at all. During the many years I attended a weeks-long summer overnight camp in the Northeast, it was a gift to my growing soul. New kids, beautiful places, leadership opportunities (me? really?!), counselors’ assuring this particularly, faithless, swimmer “No, you won’t drown in the lake because we’ve got your back.” And they did.

They always did. The too-curious gnat that flew in my ear while I was climbing a mountain in Maine? “There’s a gnat in my ear! There’s a buzzing gnat in my ear! Get it out!!” Those counselors had their hands full with this panicked child on a steep mountainside, but I trusted in their calm (whether they were or weren’t) and that gnat met its end - outside my ear!

Playing jacks on our cabin’s floor and oh God, was I bad! Really, really bad. Embarrassed at being bad. But endlessly kind camp counselors showed me there were other portals I could walk through and still become a leader, besides awkward Jack’s playing. Really? I didn’t know. And then, I did. Know. Unseen doors opened at camp.

I’m a native Texan. Got my y’all to prove it, even though I’ve not lived in Texas for many years. (I still throw that y’all around, just to prove my Texas bona fides.) Today, as a human being, a die-hard former summer camper, and a Texan, I’m crying because of an unimaginable tragedy in the beautiful Hill Country of Texas. Water, water, water everywhere, and it hasn’t stopped yet.

Worse, childhood Texas friends of mine, their daughters, and granddaughters, loved and attended the tragically devastated Camp Mystic over the years. No matter what one thinks of Facebook, it’s still offers lines of communication. (Thank you, Susan Meyer, for allowing me to share.)

“I was at Mystic when a man landed on the moon and we watched it in front of rec hall. I was at Mystic when the sniper was in the Tower at the University of Texas. I was afraid he was close, but knew I was safe. The weekly sunday night fried chicken dinner, where, to get the dinner, you had to present a letter to home.”

“Mystic was about more than tennis, archery, golf, canoeing and horseback. Mystic was about sisterhood, teamwork and recognition. About older girls influencing and helping younger girls…”

And, today, as many of us struggle with these poignant losses, I keep asking myself: “Where’s the light? Where’s the damn light?”

Oh, right, I bet you’re asking yourself the same question. Here’s my two bits. May the words, “Camp Mystic,” and those who were lost, remain alive in the ongoing deeds of all who were touched and nurtured by that magical place. Words and deeds are alive, even if their germination derives from memory.