Leaving is looming more suddenly on the horizon than I originally thought: Today was the last day of camp and, although I loved every minute of it, I left in a rush with a million thoughts running through my head. I was supposed to be leaving for Tennessee in a few weeks and I still am; but, nestled in-between a departure from camp and a trek down south, this girl will find herself in the beautiful country of Nepal.

Ask me how faithful God is, I'll tell you. Ask me how amazing He is to wait until we've settled our hearts on doing His will to give us our will. I'm going to Nepal -- is that enough of a testimony?

I leave for this trip on Tuesday morning. I'll leave a packed car at JFK airport and leave from the airport in a few weeks for Tennessee. I'll wave goodbye to New York with jet lagged eyes and freshly-returned mission trip spirit. But tonight it's time to pack my room. And say goodbye to friends. And love the Lord some more.

bros

I mean, I know I'm biased and all, but aren't they good looking boys? I just want to smile the Ferguson smile whenever I see them -- all the way up to my eyes.

Thursday Night:

Sitting still for the first time in days, it seems, even though in reality it's only been four. I'm listening to the Phoebes with one ear and a Bible lesson in the pavilion with the other. Perfect Harmony. My open Bible lays in my lap; Hosea is my personal hero recently. I hope I never grow tired of God's faithfulness. I'm amazed He chose me in the first place.

A small booklet came in the mail today. It is entitled "Always Ravished With Love." Now, before you begin accusing my reading habits, allow me to read the subtitle to you: "A treatise on the nature and necessity of romantic love as the only possible basis for a godly marriage." While I can find plenty with which to take issue in these ten pages, I find these words fully humbling: "Any man who is in love with one woman would rather wait (if need be) to posses her, than to posses any other woman immediately." And perhaps it's because Hosea is so much on my mind lately, but this declaration stopped me and demanded my full attention.

Hosea's insistence on that one woman seems so ludicrous to us pure and wholly undefiled lukewarmers. He must have really wanted her, or wanted to obey God-- simultaneous in this instance. There were dozens more desirable women around, more perfect than his harlot bride, but still, he chose her. He listened, and waited, and pursued, and cried, and loved, and lost, and gained, and wept over her. I guess know I've never been in love, but I know that my affections are as easily dissuaded as they are piqued. I am as wanton with my heart and desires as Gomer was with her body -- I've just learned to hide it better.

So we're alike, Gomer and I. But Hosea, taking his cues from God in His goodness, dipped his head in thankfulness that her iniquity never went too far, her sin never went too deep, and, even if it had, his grace was unwavering. He was waiting for that one special girl, her painted face and trodden virginity not a determent for his love, but an excuse for more.

And so I'm so grateful for my salvation. He knows my heart's inability to be steadfast. He is fully aware of my tendency to meander and detour. He knows my most pressing temptations and my most difficult perseverance. And he still waits and loves patiently; I'm worth it to Him. He'll wait as long as necessary.

I've been saddened, disillusioned, disappointed, and surprised at the amount of children coming to camp whose parents have labeled them few choice letters from the alphabet and found a medicine to correct their errant behavior. I'm warned time after time to watch out for that one, he's a little too active for his own good.

It seems I'm apologizing a lot recently in my posts, so I'll spare you the penitent treatise; I'm not sorry for my position on this: When did being a child turn into a mass psychotic quandary which can only be treated by doses taken three times daily after each meal (which cannot include red dye number 4, 3, 5, 1, 2, yellow dye number 1, 7, 3, 2, green beans, or meatballs)? When did shooting hoops, finding snakes, hanging upside down from the Beech trees, mischievous duals, being a boy become illegal? When did winning the war grow to become a faux pas and swordplay turn into playstation? Why is it that we have to cut chocolate cake dripping with icing out of their diet, but we inject their bodies with poison of a worse kind?

And when, please tell me, did treehouses become a hazard to their health?

Because I've been watching, and I know I'm young (and childless, and idealistic, and quietly opinionated), but playing hard, until your insides are tired and your jeans have holes in the knees and there is dirt caked underneath your fingernails and your mom has called you in for bed at least four times, seems to me the epitome of boyhood. The beginning of true manhood. It is during those belly-crawls, those whittling branches, those anticipatory moments when your pulse is beating so loudly you can feel it with every inch of your person, and even the moments when your face in buried in the book of James, your fingers painstakingly rewriting it for the tenth time, your mouth slowly learning to bridle itself, it is in those moments that warriors are made.

So when child after child has been brought to me over the past several weeks, complaints over their behavior, their fallible character smeared through the mud -but trying desperately to maintain some sense of cleanliness and, for goodness sake, acting beyond its age- I've stooped down and put my hand on their head and asked them one question, "Did it make you feel like a man?"

Usually the answer is no; they scuff their sneaker in the dirt and wipe the back of their hand across their face, averting their eyes, they know as well as I do that they've done something wrong. But a couple of times the answer has been yes, with a glimmer of delight in their face. It's those times that I remember how important it is for these boys to become men, to love the duals, but to love the accomplishment which comes from self instigated resolution. We fix the situation, which is never really as bad as it seemed in the first place, and we both grow up a little more.

Boys to Men. They're not made by stuffing their spirits in a prescription bottle and sending them to Special Ed. They're made of conflicts and resolution, wars and victories, strategies and discipline. They're made of appreciation and support, pride and encouragement. They're made of dirt and grime and all things boyish. Even when they're all grown up.

Happy Campers

There are things we do that bring such joy and satisfaction that we surprise even ourselves. The physicality of those things, the endorphins, the rugged living off the land sort of idealism -- all good feelings. But the real joy is found in the people.

These two girls and I spent three days together. Paddling rapids, portaging rocky waters, waiting out thunderstorms, teaching them how to paddle, listening to the silence, and laughing so hard that the canoe was in danger of tipping: I had a blast. My fingernails were grimy, my hair was a mess, the tips of my ears were burnt to a crisp, and the only thing I thought of before laying my exhausted head on my rolled up sweatshirt at night was how grateful I was to love what I'm doing this summer.

We sat in a circle Thursday night, we girls, we six. I was poking around in what had been a pretty campfire, but what was now a layer of hot coals, perfect for the Tin Foil Dinners we were about to cook. I glanced up for a moment to gauge the spirit - ten, eleven, and twelve year old girls are famous for intense hatred of bugs, boys, and all things which infringe upon their preteen selves. Sleeping outdoors in sleeping bags with only the raccoons and each other for company is not their idea of a perfect camping experience; no, to have that, one must be heavily armed with Off bugspray, a teenie two-piece, and expert rolling of the eyes skills.

This week of camp was turning out to be a complete disaster. Broken legs, absent counselors and filling in for those absent counselors, thunderstorms, coming down with a cold, and discipline problems coming from all directions -- all ingredients for a not-so-perfect-camping-experience. I was at the end of myself by Thursday evening; and these girls knew it.

I barely said a word during the entire firebuilding process, opening my mouth only to ask for more kindling or to ask for them, once again, to stop bickering. My head was pounding and sleeping on the hard surface with the raccoons rustling all night wasn't looking too pleasant to me either. We ate our TFDs in relative silence -- it seemed the only way to keep arguments to a minimal. But during those few moments of silence the Lord began pushing His way through my heart, asking me to remember some wise words my pastor's wife once said. "Without a sacrifice, there is no fire."

That is, without the precious offerings we bring to Him, there is no resulting fire. I'm no chemist and science has never been my strongpoint, so forgive me if I've botched up my simple understanding of a campfire, but the way I see it, fire needs two things to work: oxygen and solid material. I wanted spark and life to this difficult week, but I was unwilling to give more of myself than I was already giving. Mostly because I felt spent, party because I didn't think there was more to give, but primarily because I wasn't seeing any return. I had withdrawn. A fire was hopeless.

I stared at the grey and dusty smoldering coals in front of me, remembering the sturdy logs they had been only a half an hour before. I closed my eyes, partly from exhaustion, partly in prayer, and asked the Lord to forgive me. He was asking a lot of me this week, but His promises were so much more that it would be worth the sacrifice if only I was willing to give it. And so I relinquished my ideas of a perfect camping experience and began to sing, "The other day, I met a Bear. . ."

And for the first time all week, all the other voices joined in unison.

I'm not very good at sharing testimonies. Whether it is because I'm puffed up with pride or scared of my inadequecies, I don't know. But recently the testimonies have been flowing. It seems I'm always thinking of something to share with someone about something Someone else did in my life. And let me warn you -- I still almost always second-guess my sharing "Will they think I'm boasting?" "Am I being too transparent?" "Should I be sharing about this season in my life with a perfect stranger?" "Am I honoring the character of those who've played a more negative part in the testimony I'm relating?" All of those question swirl about in my head with alarming speed as soon as I utter the words "God is so faithful. Here's what He's done. . ."

But as I think about the past two years of my life, arguably the most difficult of my near quarter of a century existence, I am absolutely overcome with How Faithful The Lord Is To Me. I am humbled by His absolute Goodness. I am thrilled with His full Provision. I am delighted to watch His magnificant Purposes. I love God.

Paging through some journals from the past few years I wept at the time which seems to have been so poorly spent. Christendom is shaped by the refining and the breaking and the molding processes, I know, but when I think about the certain depression which covered my soul for the past two years, I am sickened by my lack of faith. But tonight the weeping was different -- I read each and every prayer that I've written down, "I believe, help my unbelief," and am watching the answers fall into place before my eyes.

But here's the catch: Nothing really is changing except my heart. Around February I began to change the direction of my prayers and began praying for a change of heart: If nothing else, Lord, change my heart. And He did, immediately. I noted a change and I noted a lightness that had been absent for such a long time. But tonight I've noted so much more that has changed, victories in areas I have battled for years, delight in areas I've never delighted in, the moodiness and depression I have never acknowledged, not even to you, has lifted.

Tonight we four drove home from Potsdam. All of us singing at the top of our lungs, watching the storm clouds gather over our house, full from cotton candy and companionship, I realized something. I have a testimony: The Lord lifted me out of a miry, miry pit. He put my feet not only on solid ground, but on different ground, more different than anything before. I am not so naive that I think that the personality tendencies will never strike back, but I am just idealistic enough to believe that, like Jacob's ladder, each rung takes us closer to the place we're headed.

That is my testimony. That is the faithfulness of the Lord in action in my life.

"My name is Lore, and I'll be the program director." I said. Sharon introduced herself next, "Camp nurse." The last introduction came from the small boy beside the camp director. With a look on his face that might have been misinterpreted as fear of speaking in public, but was really just admiration of his dad, he took a deep breath. "My name is Travis and" he looked up, "I'm just dad's son."

Now, correct me if I'm wrong here, or theologically bastardizing the awe and wonder of God Almighty, but being just dad's son seemed to me, at that moment, the most right place to be. We had all just labeled ourselves by our occupation, our name, our t-shirt slogans, and our choice style of Teva's; Travis needed no other identity than that of being his dad's own. Final answer.

I was challenged, so challenged, by that declaration. I've had a lot of time to mull it over these past two weeks: typing up program schedules, talking about disciplinary actions for unrepentant campers, canoeing 45 miles down the Oswegatchie river, and last night, patrolling the trails and paths for Mission Impossible. It sounds busy, and it is, but to me it has been the most restful two weeks of the past two years. Communion with God has been heightened and contentedness in his fatherhood of me has been relished. Glaring sins which have beset me always have taken a consecutive position from backseat to trunk to brake lights to the last rest stop I passed. I've forgotten what it means to battle. I've forgotten what it means to be the strong one. His faithfulness amazes me daily and His care for me (me) has ceased to become a moment I can point to and say He was the author of that blessing -- but my life as a whole is suddenly that moment.

My identity is not contingent on who, or what, or where, I am. Instead it is fulfilled in that look of fear which is really intense admiration as I look up, forget my position and my occupation, empty myself, and say "I'm just dad's son."

A sign of what's to come

I accept any consequences for the posting of this. I mean, it's not like I have a choice; it's my weblog, I'll post if I want to, and reap what I sow.

Are you familiar with the notch between your clavicle bones? Below your throat and above the beginning of your ribs? If you're a guy, it's just below your Adam's Apple; if you're me, which you're not, but if you were, it would be not just below your Adam's Apple. Yeah, that notch.

Situated just internally behind that notch, there is a pocket of something that won't go away. It's like joy, it's like a lump in my throat. It's unnatural and yet more natural than not. It's something that make me stop in my tracks and try to remember why it's hard to swallow, why it feels like I have something stuck in my esophagus, and why it doesn't hurt. Oh, I remember, it's joy. It's uninhibited, sometimes secreted, hushed and present joy.

I couldn't tell you why it's there if I tried. It's not that kind of joy -- the kind you can identify and make pointed inside jokes about, like a surprise birthday party, or the time you went to Louisville together; no, it's not like that. It tastes like contentment. It looks like peace. It smells like trust. It feels like home. It has an air of excitement, without trepidation. It has the expectation of good things, without the need to correctly identify which door those good things are behind. It has the imprint of the Lord all over it, and as far as I'm concerned He can put his hands around my throat anytime He wants if this is the outcome.

It's joy, yes, but it's so much more.
It's trust and faith and I'm just coming into it.