Entry #118
I am emotionally attached to the third shower on the right. In eight weeks I think that I have yet to use another. The water pressure sucks but the emotions run high. Times of song in the shower, times of laughter & great truth. Times of fear & revenge plotting & game planning. That leaky shower head in that cement block box has stoked a piece of my heart.
I haven't moved my stuff in eight weeks. Same cabin, same bed- now molded to my body and crushed into my heart. Sleepless nights and sleepy mornings, frightened girls without power; lightening storms, sticky sheets, cuddle piles until we were tickled awkward. The plywood floors are marked by hours of prayers, tears of release.
The kitchen has been my kitchen & the dining hall my dining room. The coffee maker, my dearest friend in the earliest of mornings. Dixon Hall has been my church building, the lobby my living room. The couches hold the sound of laughter, reprimand, and song. The computer desk reminds me of tearful phone calls home- bad news and goodnights. The CLIME room has been my office, my workspace, my playroom. Moments of prayer, hours of meetings, and times of silent flashlight tag fun. The camp buildings hold my memories and my heart in their hands and yet the 11 I've called my family possess my love altogether. Two have gone and yet nine remain- in each of their faces a moment of my summer: terror and joy and anxiety and laughter.
Camp isn't a place or a building or a song, it's a million people from a million different places composing a symphony of Christ's love.
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