Wyldlife

Day One, round two (in which I consider roots, anchors, fruit, and faith)

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[Part of a series in which I muse about life at camp.]

It is a new week at camp. In one hour, 370 new campers and leaders will arrive for the collective explosion known as Day One. And we – who have been here for a while – must live and serve with both a second-Day-One-of-camp maturity (because hopefully we have learned some things) and also with a first-Day-One-of-camp excitement (because 370 people deserve no less).

That balance is not easy to strike, whether at camp or home. It requires a willing embrace of a disciplined life, which leads to deep roots of faith, which leads to fruitful living.

We love fruitful living.

We don’t so much love disciplined living.

We are a culture that adores first-Day-One highs. We are a people that celebrates first-Day-One emotions. We are a church that chases after first-Day-One moments.

Day One is a beautiful thing. But if Day One does not lead to deeper wisdom, wider love, and stronger faith, then Day One has been lived in vain.

The miracle of following Jesus is that the pursuit of deeper wisdom, wider love, and stronger faith does not require an abandonment of Day One joys, celebrations, and thanks. Just the opposite. Digging deeper and deeper allows us to follow farther and farther. Being anchored more firmly frees us to follow more expansively. Giving up my life of self allows me to gain true life in Christ.

These are crazy, wondrous, incomprehensible, and yet wholly believable truths.

So we race towards this second-Day-One extravaganza with a first-Day-One joy. And we do this because (oh, glory!) that is what Jesus has graciously invited us to do.

“And now, just as you accepted Christ Jesus as your Lord, you must continue to follow him. Let your roots grow down into him, and let your lives be built on him. Then your faith will grow strong in the truth you were taught, and you will overflow with thankfulness!” (Colossians 2:6-7)

“…(though, of course, the servants knew)…” (in which I consider water, wine, and wonderful floors)

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"...though, of course, the servants knew..." (Photo: CKirgiss)
“…though, of course, the servants knew…” (Photo: CKirgiss)

[Part of a series in which I muse about life at camp.]

There she is – one of countless high-school students who are voluntarily serving at camp this summer – waging battle with an uncooperative and unmanageable sea creature. The giant vacuum. The massive yellow tubular monstrosity that does indeed have a mind of its own.

It’s enough to get anyone down.

But the dining room floor, you see, must be vacuumed after each meal. Each and every meal. Because, well, sometimes food drops on the floor, and if the food isn’t cleaned up after each and every meal, then the floor won’t be wonderful at the next meal.

And wonderful floors are important when you are trying to show middle school campers how much you really truly love them…even if they never notice the wonderful floors and even if they never know how the wonderful floors stay wonderful.

Some people might save the wonderful floors for the last big meal of camp. But at this camp (and so many others), the wonderful floors happen right from the get go. And never stop happening. No matter how tired or bored or discouraged the tamers of the sea monster may become.

“When the campers saw the wonderful floor, not knowing where it had come from (though, of course, the teenagers on work crew knew), they said to their leader, ‘My school food is okay, and the cafeteria is alright – but something about this place is different. Awesome. Wonderful. Every day is the best day ever.”  This miraculous sign at camp in the midwest was not the first time Jesus’ love had been displayed by teenagers. And those same teenagers believed in him even more deeply.” (John 2:9-10, paraphrased)

Let us taste His goodness. Let us drink His love. And let us do it in a banquet hall with wonderful floors.

The light shines in the darkness (in which I consider the importance of tiki torches and water balloons at middle school camp)

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It is 11 pm on the first day of camp as I write this.

The beautifully explosive middle school descent (also known as Day One of Camp) was a smashing success. They are here – all of them, in all their glory. And because they are here – all of them, in all their glory – it seemed wondrously wise to celebrate. Late at night. In the dark. Long after dinner, games, gathering, and discussion.

Because what could be better than a late night celebration (aka obstacle course) in the dark? Look here and see what I mean:

Night games (Photo: CKirgiss)
Night games (Photo: CKirgiss)

Can you see it, the wildly energetic celebration of life (extended across one parking lot, two football fields, one patch of woods, a forest path, and a beachfront) right there in the very dark of very darkness? Those blue lights on the left are flashlights, guiding small groups of the larger raucous crowd across a hilly field. Those two lights on the right are tiki torches, also known as The Official Starting Line. There are lots and lots of people there, mingling in the darkness, so ready to take off running. Look.

Night games in detail (Photo: CKirgiss)
Night games in detail (Photo: CKirgiss)

There. Do you see them? Masses of middle schoolers, lined up politely and patiently (relatively speaking).

Truth: the world is full of people living in the very dark of very darkness. They run from one light to another, hoping to arrive safely, hoping to find friends along the way, hoping to find something worth living for. Mostly they are hoping to find a place where the light  is more than just a tiny spot of world-centric bobbing and weaving.

They are looking for the only light that satisfies, the only light that pierces the darkest of dark, the only light that is steady and constant and true, the only light that embraces wholly, the only light that breathes love.

They are looking for Jesus, even if they don’t know it yet. And we are desperately hoping to reflect his light in the very dark of very darkness – rather than reflecting ourselves, which is an ever-present danger in a world that celebrates self.

And though the very dark of very darkness can sometimes overwhelm and suffocate, it does not have the last word because
the Light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness can never extinguish it.

We are for Jesus. We are for light. And against all reason and rationale, Jesus is for us.

Sing! Shout!  Let the celebration begin!

 

 

 

Here there be octaball (in which I consider beautifully shattered silence)

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[Part of a series in which I muse about life at camp.]

Here there be octaball (photo: CKirgiss)
Here there be octaball (photo: CKirgiss)

In 3 hours (180 minutes / 10,800 seconds) masses of middle-schoolers will descend upon this place. And what a magnificent descent it will be. Loud. Energetic. Excited. Boisterous. Caffeinated. Frenetic, some might say.

Glorious, we would say. Because with those masses of middle-schoolers will come life as only middle-schoolers can live it.

And in this place here, those masses of identity-formational stage of life middle-schoolers will (by the grace of God) encounter life as only Jesus can give it.

It is quiet right now. Beautifully, soothingly, breathtakingly quiet – not because all is at rest, but rather because all are at work. A Sabbath kind of work. A worshipping kind of work. A restoring kind of work. The kind of work that is absolutely necessary in order for life on earth to meet life in Christ.

It is quiet here – even in the octaball court. (Which is both miraculous and creepy.) But soon – (wonderfully, excitingly soon) the still silence will be beautifully shattered in a way that only happens at camp.

Be still, my soul – in peace, in thanks, in adoration – and in preparation for the earth-shattering explosion that even now is barreling down the highway in this direction. We await in expectant joy!

The Best Week of Your Life (in which I consider the miracle of summer camp)

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Michindoh Day 0 (photo: CKirgiss)
Michindoh Day 0 (photo: CKirgiss)

The miracle that is summer camp defies description on so many levels, even before summer camp has begun.

In 24 hours, 300+ middle-schoolers will descend on a little plot of sacred space in the mitten known as Michigan. So in fact the miracle we await will be twofold as miraculous summer camp collides with miraculous middle-school and creates a breathtaking explosion of awesomeness.

The excitement and anticipation and energy and total stupendousness of what’s to come is almost too overwhelming.

But not quite – because there is work to do. The miracle that is summer camp, you see, does not happen on its own. Not even close.

So today – 36 hours before campers arrive and the collision begins, and 8 hours before the full staff arrives – a small group of people started to work. Hard. Even though the work doesn’t officially start yet. Because that’s how things happen at camp. People step in. People step up. People step out, marching to the sacramental beat of an incarnated Savior who fully embodied and faithfully modeled humble service and grace and joy and love.

Welcome to camp, Day 0. We look ahead. We anticipate We catch our breath in sweet expectation.

And we work. Because without work – sweet, sacred, blessed work – the miracle that is summer camp cannot happen.

Let us rejoice and be glad!

I’m baaaaaack….. (or: Why Middle-Schoolers Are the Awesomest)

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Wyldlife boys Wyldlife girls

It’s been a long summer. A long and full summer. A long and full and amazing summer. Mostly because I got to spend 5 of the 10 weeks with awesome middle-schoolers.

That’s right: “middle-schoolers” and “awesome” – all in the same paragraph, same sentence, same phrase.

The reactions I get to spending half my summer with middle-schoolers range from eye-rolls to offers of sympathy. The reactions I get to the fact that I spent half my summer with middle-schoolers – and loved every single second of it – range from disbelief to concern to condolences, as though there’s a direct and quantifiable connection between my love for middle-schoolers and my impending mental demise.

To which I say: phooey.

And phooey again.

Middle-schoolers are simply delightful beyond words, and if I could bundle them all up and bring them home with me, I would (though that would require a pretty big supply of Axe and neon nail polish).

To every middle-schooler I met this summer: thank you for being you.

And to every middle-school doubter out there: you don’t know what you’re missing. Fact.

Legend of the Round Table (Michindoh Post 6)

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[This post is sixth of a series in which I reflect on spending a month at camp for Wyldlife (middle schoolers) and YoungLives (teen moms). You can follow by subscribing to this blog below. All posts are categorized as ‘Michindoh 2013’.]

The famous Round Table of Arthurian legend has got nothing on the infamous Round Table of Camp.

In short, we eat at Round Tables. Every meal. Every day. Banquet tables would hold more people. And they could be set up in neat rows.

But we prefer Round Tables. Of 8 people. Set up in free-flowing pods.

Pre-meal Round Tables are nothing to write home about. They would never grace the pages of a slick home and garden mag.

Pre-meal round table (Photo: CKirgiss)

Adding bread and water livens things up a bit and is entirely lovely since the conversations and interactions that take place at the Round Tables are blessed and consecrated by the Bread of Life and the Living Water.

Pre-meal round table, plus bread (Photo: CKirgiss)
Pre-meal round table, plus bread (Photo: CKirgiss)

Feeding everyone at all of the Round Tables is not quite as miraculous as feeding the 5000 – but it surely is as beautiful.

Serving the Round Tables (Photo: CKirgiss)
Serving the Round Tables (Photo: CKirgiss)

The Round Tables are a perfect place to eat with friends, to look at one another face to face, to be part of a circle that is mightier by far than any group of Arthur’s noble knights.

IMG_4807
Being at the Round Table (Photo: CKirgiss)

In a world where Round Tables – or any other shaped tables – are becoming more and more rare, the chance to gather around one several times each day is a blessed gift indeed.

If there is any disadvantage to Round Tables, it is only this: half of the people must turn in their chairs…

Round Table entertainment (Photo: CKirgiss)
Round Table entertainment (Photo: CKirgiss)

…in order to see such momentous upfront events as…

Baby and Baby's Playtime (Photo: CKirgiss)
Baby and Baby’s Playtime (Photo: CKirgiss)

…Baby and Baby blowing Coco-Puffs. Out of their noses. Into buckets. For points.

You might not be surprised to hear that Baby won (with 12) while Baby lost (with 8).

But at the Round Tables, there are no losers. Ever. Each and every middle-schooler circled around each and every meal is loved. Listened to. Cared for. Encouraged. Believed in. Prayed for. Delighted in. And so much more.

The shape of the table matters indeed.

But more importantly:

The hearts of the people eating around the table matter beyond measure.

Each and every one.

Thou rising moon with praise rejoice (Michindoh Post 5)

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[This post is fifth of a series in which I reflect on spending a month at camp for Wyldlife (middle schoolers) and YoungLives (teen moms). You can follow by subscribing to this blog below. All posts are categorized as ‘Michindoh 2013’.]

Dateline: Wyldlife at Michindoh, Week 2, Day 1

Today is Day 1, second time over. 350 new campers and leaders. Eight separate welcomes. First round of scheduled rides. First leaders meeting. First all-camp meal. First club. First late-night event.

I’m not responsible for any of it – yet I’m tired just thinking about it.

The second leg of the relay race is difficult. The newness of Week 1, Day 1 is long worn off. The excitement of serving has settled down into the reality of a daily routine. The new friendships and relationships among staff are no longer new.

But these campers don’t know that, and shouldn’t be able to sense that. They deserve all the excitement of the first Day 1, and they will get the added benefit of a seasoned team who already knows the steps to the Day 1 Dance.

We look ahead with excitement. We also look back to learn.

On the last full night of camp Week 1, I saw this miraculous reflection of the moon on a still and sacred lake.

Reflected moon (Photo: CKirgiss)
Reflected moon (Photo: CKirgiss)

I was reminded of what all Believers are called to do: reflect the love and glory of God as clearly and brightly as possible.

Our attitudes and actions reflect only that which we know and love. It seems to me that there are three possible things to reflect – the world, the self, the Lord.

The first is easy. The second is natural. The third is impossible – on our own.

But still, it is our daily call and our lifelong challenge. As Solomon wrote, “As a face is reflected in water so the heart reflects the real person.”

Too often, the real person we reflect includes little of Jesus. Self so happily and naturally takes center stage.

Still, we pray and strive and strain to do this – to reflect Jesus well so that others see his love and grace and life through us (somehow, miraculously, amazingly).

But reflecting Jesus is not the ultimate goal.

If people only see Jesus as reflected in us, they have gained nothing.

The real goal is that people see Jesus himself.

I saw the beautifully reflected moon from a distance, from high up on the bank, behind a grove of trees. The beauty of what I saw drew me forward, one step, two steps, three steps, until I stepped out from under the trees, looked up, and saw this:

Moon (reflected) (Photo: CKirgiss)
Moon (reflected) (Photo: CKirgiss)

The real moon. The source.

We reflect Jesus so that others can see Jesus, period. So that they are drawn forward one step, two steps, three steps, until they step out from behind the trees, look up, and see the Real Thing. The Source. The Lord Jesus Christ, maker of heaven and earth, lover of my soul, saviour of the world.

Whenever someone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. So all of us who have had that veil removed can see and reflect the glory of the Lord. And the Lord – who is the Spirit – makes us more and more like him as we are changed into his glorious image. 2 Corinthians 3:16-18
 
Amen. Amen. And amen.

Oh boy (Michindoh Post 2)

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[This post is the second in a series in which I reflect on spending a month at camp for Wyldlife (middle schoolers) and YoungLives (teen moms). You can follow the series by subscribing to this blog. All posts will be categorized as ‘Michindoh 2013’.]

Announcement: I love middle school boys.

(I considered opening with Confession instead of Announcement because it carries a certain amount of sophisticated narrative weight, especially in today’s memoir-crazed literary culture. But it also has certain pejorative implications that would be both unfair to and untrue of middle school boys. They already get enough bad press. Hence I will announce.)

I am living in the midst of 150-ish middle school boys this week. And while I do feel a certain genetic affinity for the 200-ish middle school girls in whose midst I am also currently living, I am most definitely drawn to the boys in greater measure for reasons quite beyond my comprehension.

It might be because at this age they are (for the most part) not yet entirely caught up in the swagger that looms just over the horizon.

It might be because at this age they are (at least some of them) seriously trying to engage in the whole confident-solid-handshake thing.

It might be because at this age they are (in some cases) still willing to try things that will be considered totally lame in another year or so.

Or it might be because underneath all of the nascent manhood that they are tentatively donning in various forms there still exists a boy who is not beyond needing – and often accepting – love, comfort, and protection.

One of the 7th-grade boys here is homesick. Seriously homesick. To such an extent that his body aches, his stomach churns, and his head throbs. This afternoon, while his cabin mates enjoyed the lake, he lay on the bank, knees drawn up, arm over his face, desperately missing his family.

I love that he wasn’t afraid to cry about it. That he didn’t feel the need to swagger and sway in falsely tough skin. That he didn’t worry what his friends and cabin mates would think of him. Not every middle school boy would be so transparently honest about his feelings. And not every group of friends would be wise enough to realize that the true issue was sadness rather than weakness.

But these friends were. They neither mocked him for being a baby (he isn’t) nor assumed that a barrage of encouraging words — or well-placed punches, which are sometimes the same thing in middle-school-boy-world — would eliminate the issue (they wouldn’t). Instead, they simply sat by him in turns, first one, then another, letting him know they noticed, they cared, and they weren’t leaving him to deal alone.

If only we would all be so vulnerable with the Lord as that 7th-grade boy was with his friends. If only we would let Him see our tears, would reject disingenuous swagger, and would cast aside the fear of being perceived as too weak. Or too broken. Or too hopeless. Or too lost.

If only we would all be so discerning with those who hurt as that group of boys was with their friend. If only we would offer first and foremost our presence, rejecting the desire to fix, casting aside the need of being perceived as very spiritual. Or very wise. Or very wonderful. Or very awesome.

I thought about these things today only because of what I saw happen in a group of middle school boys hanging out by the lake.

That might be one reason why I love them so much.

Where it’s at (Michindoh Post 1)

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[This post is the first in a series in which I reflect on spending a month at camp for Wyldlife (middle schoolers) and YoungLives (teen moms). You can follow the series by subscribing to this blog. All posts will be categorized as ‘Michindoh 2013’.]
 

Yesterday (June 8) 350+ middle school students and their leaders pulled into a beautiful and sacred space known as Michindoh, located in the mitten state, specifically the lower mid-palm region. It would be cooler to say “in the thumb” or “on the ring finger.” But we are where we are, which is the lower mid-palm region. I would argue that in real life, the lower mid-palm region is where it’s at.

So what if it can’t point, can’t oppose, can’t wear a ring, can’t snap, can’t tap, or any of those other things that fingers and thumbs do.

Without the lower mid-palm region providing a place from which fingers and thumbs can do their business by connecting them to the arm to the shoulder to the body to the brain that tells them what to do, fingers and thumbs would be entirely pointless, really.

Michindoh – like every other camp run by God-loving Jesus-following folk – is nothing more than a place from which those who are the hands and feet (or fingers and thumbs) of Jesus can do their business, which is loving God and following Jesus among (in this case) middle schoolers and teen moms in the hopes that they see something about the Christian life that is so utterly attractive, appealing, and sweet they can’t help but notice.

If it were by our own power that God-loving and Jesus-following folk hoped to reflect an utterly attractive, appealing, and sweet life with Christ, all would be lost (which, in fact, is exactly what all God-loving and Jesus-following folk once were). For there is nothing about the inherent essence of anyone that could ever possibly accomplish such a thing. On our own, we are appalling, repellant, and (I suspect) as far from being a sweet aroma as the east is from the west.

But with the Spirit’s presence drenching our souls in His love, grace, forgiveness, and re-creation, suddenly (miraculously, undeservedly, assuredly) the beautifully attractive, appealing, and sweet Jesus can shine through – even if just a tiny bit – into a world that is far too dark and much too broken.

That’s why we are here, joyfully settled into this lower mid-palm region of the kingdom, working together to be the fingers and thumbs of a hand that will (by God’s grace) point people to the face and feet of Jesus. Should they choose to look, in His face they will see his endless love for them reflected in His eyes. Should they embrace that love, at His feet they will fall in sweet surrender to the God-man who gave up everything in order to give new life.

I cannot image being any other place doing any other thing for any other reason – being in the lower mid-palm region of the hand of Jesus is really that big of a deal.

Week 1, night 1, 8:29 p.m. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:29 p.m. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:37 p.m. Let's do this. (Photo: CKirgiss)
Week 1, night 1, 8:37 p.m. Let’s do this. (Photo: CKirgiss)