I keep a lot of things in my backpack: folders, notebooks, a calendar for 2013 and one for 2014, a container of homemade granola, a little book in which to write down the sporadic thoughts that invade my head and insist on being remembered, pencils (they live a really fun pencil case I got from Walmart - it has Rex from Toy Story on it), some different colored pens, highlighters, a compass (the geometry kind, not the North/East/South/West kind), my laptop and charger, a jar of peanut butter, a quite dull knife borrowed (stolen) from Harcombe (so I can eat the peanut butter), my iPod (I bought it used in 2006 and it still works just fine so that's pretty great), sunglasses, chapstick, and my heart.
My heart was given to me at Camp this summer by a little Sertoma camper, whose name I cannot share, but just know that she was amazing and adorable and I love her. She called me "Mama" and I let her. It came so naturally. In the midst of busy times, when all ten girls were talking as loudly and as quickly as they could, if she said, "Mama, can you help me tie my shoes?" I would hear her and know that she was talking to me and then help her tie her shoes. She was so slow at tying her shoes so it really sped up our whole group if she had some help. I loved getting to be her pretend mama.
She had the cutest little freckles on her nose and cheeks. When she was scared at night, I sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed her back like my mama used to do to me when I was scared at night. I loved all of my girls that week, but she and I connected really well.
On Friday night, when I was packing up her stuff for her, making sure that she was going home with everything she brought with her, I took her coin purse (that actually had knicknacks in it, but no coins) out of her top drawer to pack in the bag she was taking home. She was sitting on the floor watching me pack up her stuff for her and occasionally, when I asked, helping me out. Before I could put the coin purse into her bag, she took it out of my hand and started looking through the knicknacks. She took out a red velvet plush heart that said, "Be mine" on it. It looked pretty tacky.
And then she gave me the heart and then it became my heart. This was during the last week of Camp, and ever since Camp has been over, I've been thinking about it and her, my little blond Sertoma girl, my hypothetical daughter. I call all of my campers, in both Hope and Sertoma "my babies," and I mean it because they are my babies: even for those who have been coming to Camp for thirty years longer than I have been alive. They are all my babies.
I wanted to be able to look at my heart every day so it now lives in the side pocket in my backpack (the pocket with the peanut butter, not the pocket with the iPod and sunglasses and chapstick just for clarification). I felt like that would be a better place to put it than on my sleeve because having my heart on my sleeve is just a little much. In the side pocket of my backpack it's still visible and I eat a good amount of peanut butter so I look at my heart and think about Camp multiple times per day.
And guys, I miss Camp so bad. Here in the real world, when my face and hair look awful, I feel obligated to care and make an effort to look better, but at Camp, I feel totally comfortable no matter what I look like or how long it has been since I last showered. I have a bright blue polka-dot bow that I love to wear in my hair and I wore at least once a week during Camp, but every time I wear it here, I feel a little more obnoxious and like it's not okay to wear a bow to class.
I'm prone to burst into song at any random point in time inside of my head, but at Camp I can burst out into song at any random point out loud and everyone around me will join enthusiastically. And if they don't, I will tickle them until they do.
At Camp, if I don't get a chance to use the Internet for a very long amount of time or don't answer my phone for a while (or maybe at all), that's okay. People understand because they know I'm at Camp, and they know (or at least I hope they do) that I'm doing my life's calling and trivial things like technological communication and social media are the least of my worries.
I talk about Camp like I should talk about Jesus. I talk about it so much that it that the people around me know my stories before I tell them and are familiar with a good amount of Camp songs (especially the birdie song, my very favorite). I make sure everyone knows about my feelings for Camp and how it has made me into a person with a heart of velvet plush cheesiness. And I love it that way. If I mention something about Camp to a person I'm talking to and they seem confused, I know that I've done a terrible job letting them know what I am about.
The other day I got to have lunch with some people from another camp (I'm not cheating on Hope/Sertoma, I promise! I was guilted into going and then they bought me a McAlister's four cheese griller so what was I supposed to say to that? I said yes and have remained faithful) and hearing them talk about it was really cool. Their camp sounded great. If I didn't have a Camp to which my heart already belonged so wholly, I would consider working there, but I do, so I won't. I am perfectly content where I am. More than simply that, I actively want Camp to always be a major part of my life, even if there comes a time when I can no longer be there every day all summer long and sometimes random days during the year. So yes, I guess you could consider this me defining my relationship with Camp.
Thank you, Camp, for giving me my heart. I will use it to the best of my ability to be kind and unassuming always and to share with people how great you are, and also how Jesus is the only way I am able to stay alive alert awake enthusiastic, loving, and whole.
I had a plan for my life, and Camp was not in it. Mostly what was in it was sleeping and reading, which are good things, but not as good as Camp. And then I worked at Camp sporadically for half of a summer, and now I am in the process of ditching the plan (it's much harder to do than it is to write) because God has made it evident to me that the things He plans for me are far more superior than the things I plan for me. So the new plan: love Jesus, love Camp, love peanut butter.
Love,
Lauralicious
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