7 Things I learned at Church Camp

             This past week I had the opportunity to go with 15 4th and 5th graders as well as 4 other adults, from my church - Highland Baptist - to Passport camp near Knoxville, Tennessee. These are a few of the things I learned.

 1. Our greatest strength is our greatest weakness.
  That's s a fancy way of saying that we are all 100% adorable and 100% annoying . . . especially at the end of a 15 hour camp day.

2.  Church camp has come a long way since 1985.

 Thirty-two years ago I chaperoned a GA camp where the 4^th and 5^th grade girls slept on the floor next to me because the Camp Pastor had convinced them all that the devil could snatch them up in their sinfulness and deliver them to hell at a moment’s notice. This year Pastor Will taught us about being the hands and feet of God to serve and love one another. That equaled no bad dreams and the consideration that becoming a Christ follower is more of a way than an event.

 3.Cafeteria workers don’t have to be in perpetual bad moods.

 After spending the majority of my lunchtimes with a tray waiting in line at a school cafeteria, I could have sworn that the job description required frowns and the answer to all questions were an unequivocal no. This week the cafeteria folks were a delight. They smiled at us and our kids. They accommodated gluten-free requests with creativity and poise. They were good listeners and led us to believe that there was no shortage of the good foods they prepared for us. They served us as if our children were the most important guests to ever arrive in their cafeteria. They were the hands and feet of God for a very hungry and grateful group from Highland.

4. Pastor Renee is really sort of a big deal.

And not just at HBC, but in the entire world of PassportCamps. When folks found out we were with Renee, it was like showing up in Memphis under the leadership of Elvis. Knowing how ruthless pastor search committees can be, I’m not sure we should let her out of our building.

5    Even Highland folks get tired of reflecting and debriefing.

. . . but our kids are the only ones to actually give voice to that thought. When Pastor Will reminded us that we would be moving into our small group reflection time after the worship service, one of our campers (who shall remain nameless but whose mom is one of our pastors), with hands in hair, said, “Oh. My. Gosh. You’ve got to be kidding me!” My response, “I feel you, girl.”

6     For full aural osmosis to occur, praise choruses must be sung 25 times at each service.

 (That statistic is straight from Kathy Collier.)

7    Camp friends are like no other.

You don’t really know someone until you’ve seen them try to sneak Mountain Dew in their water bottle or take a shower without soap. You don’t know them until “I love yous” are swapped at bedtime or you’re given a bracelet made at craft time. Camp friends forgive you when you lock all the keys and phones in one room. (Don’t ask how I know.) Only with camp friends can a game of tag turn into a holy and sacred time. Only camp friends can agree to hold each other accountable as we try to Do Justice. Love Kindness and Walk Humbly with God.
 

The Village

Over my teaching career, I’ve been lucky enough to have had teaching colleagues that were so much more than fellow teachers. More like sisters and mothers and daughters and, maybe a grouchy aunt or two.

It makes sense that these intimate relationships develop; after all I spend more time with these women than my own family. It’s easy to pull myself together for a family reunion once a year, or a church service on Sunday, but pulling myself together from 7:00 – 4:00 every single work day can’t be done, and I’ve discovered that the people that see me when I am completely undone and don’t walk away, are the friends that will bail me out of jail and ask questions later.

Our profession and gender probably play a factor in these villages we create. As teachers, it’s a given that we care deeply about people and relationships, that our job is more than the paycheck. And, at the risk of being stereotypical , our gender (or perhaps the lessons that our mothers have taught us) dictates that we require a pack or a village to support and care for us. A pack that makes us appear less vulnerable and more bad-ass than perhaps we really are.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that school villages know no boundaries. They will tell you that you need to look into some anxiety medicine. That you have some hairs on your chin. That you need to keep your mouth shut during a faculty meeting. 

The village friends know what you like to drink from McDonald’s. They know your favorite donut, and they will take things from your desk drawers or closet, even when you’re not there. They are the same friends that will say you had an emergency if you get a phone call right after school, when you really needed to leave for a hair appointment. And they will swear on the Bible that you were there for a professional development, even if they have no memory of August at all.

Those same noisy, opinionated friends will mourn with you when the loss seems unbearable. They will load up your stuff in a pickup when a divorce is the only answer. They will plan a wedding for your daughter and celebrate as new life comes to your family. They can even be quiet with you when there are no easy answers. They will hold you in their arms and tell you that it’s going to be okay because you are not alone.

This week my mother’s friend, Irene Hadley, passed away. She was 89 and was a beloved member of my mother’s own teaching village and the first to die.

It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother’s village is very similar to my own, and one that I’ve bore witness to for more than 40 years. Mrs. Hadley was a senior member. The quiet, level-headed one that offered to say prayers and light candles. No doubt the dynamics of my mother’s village will shift with the empty place in at least a subtle way, but I’m sure when some tragedy hits their circle and they are loudly complaining, someone will step up and offer to light the candle for Mrs. Hadley. That’s what villages do.

In hindsight, I’m probably as thankful for Mom’s village as my own. They can keep her in check with chin hairs, and they can listen to her concerns for me and tell her I’m really doing just fine. They can listen to her complain and vent, then put her back together and send her home to my dad.

Her village can love her in ways that none of the rest of us can, and she’s better because of it.

Her village has carried her for more than 40 years. Here’s hoping mine will do the same.

A Safe Place

It’s been a long, crazy winter. First, there hasn’t actually been a winter. One snow day early in January and it has been smooth sailing. It’s actually been kind of spooky with all the warm days. I would attribute that to global warming, if that actually existed. (She writes sarcastically.)

Secondly, three of our four children are in transition, transitioning back to Kentucky without definitive plans, no cash on hand and with a total of 4 cats. Lucky for them they are all cute with giving hearts and sacred dreams.

Walter and I have realized that no matter how old your children may be, their transition equals our sleepless nights and countless rounds of the “What If” game. We’re old and any interruption of our dog walks, crossword puzzles and Jeopardy viewing can send us into a tail spin.

Anyway, in the old days, before Prozac and Grace (both my dog and the holy kind), my “safe place,” more often than not was my classroom. In Room 206, I find my sanctuary surrounded my 25 loud children, eager for chicks to hatch or reading a fantastic book together.

For the better part of six hours, I get to close the door and live in an alternate universe. A world where we make rules together, like use kind words and take turns and go to the bathroom when you need to pass gas.

During my divorce, even during those scary infant days of my recovery, walking into my classroom was like walking into church for some. I knew there was no judgement, we could talk through our problems, that forgiveness and love would live to see another day.

So this time, when change and uncomfortableness made its way into my heart and mind, I breathed a sigh of relief. This was a slam dunk. Now I had Prozac, Grace AND this sacred space called Room 206.

Talk about being wrong.

Over the winter, while I was busy assessing standards, creating common formative assessments, graphing outcomes and continually unpacking and frontloading – the new catchphrases in the world of education – Donald Trump’s Great America had slithered its way under our door, bringing the vile into the holy.

During an altercation over a pair of scissors, one of my boys told a friend that she needed to take her unibrow and go back to Mexico. He informed her that “Trump is building a wall and you need to be on the other side of it.”

Now, keep in mind, that he is a beautiful blonde hair, brown eyed boy who has a tender heart and is going through a brutal custody battle of his parents making, and this vile spewed forth from this tender and innocent mouth. With his anger and frustration building for days, his feelings found no true words so he resorted to the words of his parents and president. (sit with that for a minute. He was only repeating the words of his parents and our president!)

Trying to show as much bravado as one can with a chip on his shoulder weighing more than he does, he defiantly continued, “Maybe I am a racist. I mean, no one likes me anyway.” With that statement, he was suspended and eventually moved to a different classroom so his victim could feel safe and he could start with a clean slate. I hope that actually happens.

Next day a text message from an angry parent is sent to my co-teacher, Bonnie, and me expressing her dislike for the person her son chose to research during our unit on “People who have made a difference.”

Her son had chosen to research Malala. Malala is a young woman from Pakistan, a Muslim, who spoke out against the Taliban over girls not being permitted to go to school. Her opposition resulted in her being shot and her family fleeing to England for safety. She has received a Nobel Peace Prize and continues to speak for women and education around the world.

Back to the text. Her son would not be studying a Muslim girl from Pakistan. She expected him to be assigned an American, maybe a president. Thankfully, I did not actually see the text until the morning after she sent it. Bonnie on the other hand read the text as she was going to bed and spent a sleepless night.

I was left speechless, which rarely happens, along with a broken heart and an infinite amount of frustration.

I’ve tried to find the middle ground of this new administration. I honestly have because people that I love and care for voted for Trump, and it haunts me to know that these good, faithful folks cast even one vote that caused a little boy to confidently tell a fellow classmate to get on the other side of the wall, or a mother to be brave enough to demand that her son would not be learning about a little girl from Pakistan.

I know their positions on gun control, coalmining, abortion, sexuality caused most of them to vote against Hillary Clinton rather than for Trump, and while I don’t agree with their politics, I understand their fear about changes that sometimes seem to threaten their personal way of life.

 I also know that they believe I am a bleeding heart liberal with a confused moral compass and that they pray for me to find the right path, and I know that their prayers are without malice and with hearts full of love.

And, they are partly right.

I’m so far left that it’s probably hard to see me from the middle, but my moral compass is right on point. We follow a Christ that teaches that love is more important than guns and jobs and 401ks and even the enforcement of the religious beliefs we hold onto so desperately.

I get it; it’s just easier to wrap our head around rules than to understand a love with no boundaries and few earthly examples, except for Gandhi and my mother.

While I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about the next four years of the Trump’s presidency, besides calling my representatives, sending letters, and protesting, I’m still in charge of Room 206 and I’ll spend the next 4 years stuffing the cracks with acceptance and love and understanding. I’m going to make sure that the sacredness in our room will crowd out any of Trump’s America that tries to slip under the door. Who knows, maybe the sacredness will even make its way to the hall and right out the front door.