Youth Camp Cometh

I've been busy getting ready for Louisiana Youth Camp. Most of the responsibility falls to my husband but he's kind enough to give me the task of finding cool videos to play during camp "goof-off" time. You know the kind...sports bloopers, funny pet tricks, etc. So I've been thinking a lot about my own youth camp experience. I know that everyone who has grown up in church has a youth camp story. In between the pranks, the mudd volleyball, the smelly hot cabins and the zip line - God tugs, bends and changes young hearts. It's as supernatural for the kids as it is exhausting for the adults. It's a staple in American Christian Culture and for good reason.
I don't know how old I was when I went to Camp Maranatha in North Carolina. Eleven, twelve maybe? Some things stand out more than others. I believe I was the only one that went from my church. Someone else paid for it. They called it a scholarship. I was one of four kids with a single mom who relied on God to meet every need. Some days we would find groceries on our back steps or anonymous money orders in the mail. I remember going to the store with my mom to buy toothpaste for the Camp. My very own tube of toothpaste. It was Bubblegum flavor....it felt like such a luxury. I felt a little guilty watching my mom scribble the cost of it down and subtracting...every penny counted. I knew my toothpaste meant a gallon of milk would have to be 1/2 a gallon or two boxes of mac n cheese would now have to be one.
I remember too the man at church who organized my venture. Herb Eplee. He came to pick me up that summer and we made the drive to Camp. My memories are fuzzy but I do remember distinctly him asking me if I had everything I needed.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you have extra money for the canteen?"
I was mortified. Extra money? What was that? If we did have any extra money it was spent on my tiny tube of Bubblegum flavor toothpaste. I was embarrassed and he read it on my face.
"It's okay," he said. He pulled over at a bank, got out and returned with some money. He tucked it into my hand.
"There now," he said. "Let's not tell your mom because I don't want her to feel like she has to pay me back. This is a gift. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. It felt so good - that crisp bill in my hand. It felt new, brand new as if my hands and Herb's were the only ones to ever touch it - like it was printed just for me - just for that moment. I went to camp and bought slushies with it. With every sip I thought of Herb. Have you ever been so marked by someone's kindness that it changes you forever? I have.
I told myself if I ever won the lottery, I was going to find Herb and pay him back one hundred times over. Unfortunately for Herb, I don't play the lottery - so it's nice to know that his reward is in heaven.
I grew up and moved away. Got married, had kids, went into ministry alongside my husband and became a sucker for every kid in need because when I looked at them, I saw myself. It's sweet, poetic irony that I'm helping to organize a state youth camp like the one that so altered my own life.
What happened to Herb? Is that what you're wondering? I wondered too. Thank goodness in facebook world, there is only one Herb Eplee.
I wrote him.
He answered:
"Rhonda...this is amazing!" he wrote. "Susie and I can't believe you remember us..."
Remember you? How could I forget?
How could I ever, ever forget?

Dental Spas ??

I was taken in right away by her shiny white teeth that glowed out of the TV into the living room like the sun. It was a commerial by a dentist for her "Dental Spa".
Her kids were in the commerical so she had to be good, right?
Dental Spa? Yes, a spa that's a dentist or a dentist that's a spa - I'm not sure which but I wanted to go.
We used to live in England. It's a wondrous place full of history, traditions, castles and friends that we will hold dear forever. It's also the home of socialized medicine. My daughter had the fortune of doing her first bit of growing up in England. She also had the misfortune of drinking their water that was just as wet as ours here in America but had NO flouride. What genius American said, "Hey, let's put flouride in our water so our kids' teeth don't rot out!" I don't know who it was - but we all owe him a great debt.
So when Arianna was 4, she got a cavity in her baby tooth. I took her to the English dentist who was, in fact, Indian. I didn't understand much of what he said but gathered that, because it was a "just" a baby tooth, they were not required to drill out the bacteria and fill it - they just filled it and hoped for the best.
"She's going to lose it anyway," he told me.
"Are there any dentists that speak good English? Where are they," I asked the attendant, frustrated that I couldn't understand why this was happening to my daughter and nothing was done.
"They go to America," whispered one of the kind English Dental Techs.
She got an infection. Then...another. Soon I was holding my four year old's hand as they knocked her out and extracted her baby tooth that could've been saved had it been dealt with properly in the first place. But it was all free: Socialized medicine.
Fast forward to today. Arianna is nine and her spacer that was put on in England has to be removed. The debacle that started in England's socialized medicine mess was about to be corrected once and for all by America's healthcare - the greatest in the world. And why not at the Dental Spa? I call and make an appointment, go to the office and start the paper work...the last page amazes me. Arianna and I read through it and tried not to giggle with excitement. It's all complimentary...you just have to put a check by the one(s) you'd like. The services include:
soft, plush robe while you get the work done
eye mask
headphones
tv, dvd, music
aromatherapy heated neck wrap
massage chair (with or without heat)
lip balm
paraffin wax mitts for your hands
jewelry cleaned
foot massaging slippers
neck and shoulder massage
sinus relief massage
headache relief massage
scalp massage
facial massage
hand massage
feet massage
While we're deciding - the happy receptionist comes out with complimentary lemon water. I make Arianna check all the boxes - for fun - and because I want to live vicariously through her.
They take her back and I soon I meet the doctor. Just as beautiful in person as she was on her commercial - bouncy, happy, smart, and she speaks plain, perfect English.
My daughter asks a question.
"What's that Bo?" she asks, caressing my daughter's arm.
She called my daughter Bo. When your child is given a nickname of endearment by a doctor coupled with an affectionate touch - approval by the beholding parent is a no-brainer. Of course she called her Bo and stroked her...because my daughter deserves to be addressed and comforted. Did that kind of interaction ever happen in England?
No. America is not only home to the best healthcare in the world but it is full of happy doctors who don't have to leave the country to get what's due them.
"They didn't get out all that baby tooth, we're going to have to get the rest out when we remove the spacer," she says. "They" being the English dentist who was Indian who did for my daughter only what the government thought she deserved - the minimum.
I said all that to say this - please don't think that socialized medicine is a good idea. It's not. I lived there. I have more stories than this. Every American should be petrified at the thought of the government being in control of medicine.
I remember being in England and having conversations about healthcare.
"Don't you have to pay some sort of deductible?" asked one informed Brit.
"Yes...yes we do."
Do I care? No. Because the feeling of taking my daughter home and knowing that she doesn't have a raging infection in her jaw that may go to her brain due to my government's lack of concern, knowledge or money is a priceless feeling.
And I'd be happy to debate it with any liberal, anytime, right after I finish my complimentary lemon water.

Vengeance is not mine. But sometimes I want to pick it up and hold it for a minute.

There has always been one thing about my husband that bugs me above all else. It's his inability to hold a grudge or be angry with anyone for longer than 0.25 seconds. For the longest time I have struggled with this defect in him and have tried to help him correct it. Not only can he forgive and forget with the blink of an eye - he also seems to take joy in the process. His inability to be unforgiving bothers me so much that I have had to work out reasons why he is able to move on after a painful event, and I am not. Is it because he is more spiritual than me? Is he holier than me? Better than me? That can't be it. So I decided yesterday that this defect of non-grudge holding can only be due to biology. He's a man. A single tasker. I am a woman. A multi-tasker. So - the reason he can't hold a grudge is because he can only do one thing at a time. For instance, if he's been hurt and wants to fish - he can ONLY think of the fishing - not the hurt. He is biologically incapable of fishing and holding a grudge at the same time - because that would fall under mulitasking.
I, on the other hand, can hold the grudge in one hand, the kids in the other, pay bills in the other part of my mind, wonder if the dogs have water, check to see if the coffee pot is on, plan on what the kids will wear for picture day, remind myself to catch Sarah Palin on Leno, send the World Vision kid a birthday card, wonder how my mom is, relive the moment in Superbowl 44 when Porter read Manning's pass like a Dick and Jane book and ran gloriously into the end zone, etc. - all at once. I don't have to put my grudge down - ever. Add the PMS factor to this and my excuse for grudge holding is unchallengable. I'm either about to PMS, PMS'ing or just getting over my PMS. Which means there are only 3 days of the month that I am normal. And usually...I try to sleep through those. Throw in a full moon and I could end up in jail.
So yesterday we got wounded. Rob recovered. I have not.
We talked about it last night and I marveled at his ability to forgive and move on- and I blamed his simple, single tasking mind for the reason he could skip through the house gleefully while I was busy envisioning stabbing this person who hurt us in eyeballs with very sharp No.2 pencils.
I share my thoughts of eyeball stabbing with my husband.
"You're still thinking about that?" he asks. "Let it go."
"Let it go, let it go??? But he __________________________________________!!" I exclaim.
"Rhonda, you have to start seeing people the way God sees them. We don't know what kind of month he's had. We don't know what he's been told, what he's been through...we don't know what his health is like, or his family. I have to look at him and say to myself, 'there but for the grace of God go I.'"
I hate it when he throws himself into "wise Pastor" mode. It's hard to argue with someone who is quoting scripture.
Rob has always had a knack for loving stupid people. The stupider they are - the more he seems to love them. He wants to help them - he wants to cheer them on their spiritual journey. Stupid people are attracted to him. He gives the stupidest people the benefit of the doubt. One stupid person in particular struggled with a drug addiction that was so profound - he was abandoned by everyone around him. Except Rob.
"Rob....he's not going to change, give up." I told him that. Everyone told him that.
The guy would be at the altar weeping one minute and in jail the next.
"Sometimes," he told me, "people just need one person to believe in them. If he has to ride the altar to heaven....let it be the altar in my church."
Ministry is full, full, full of stupid people. If it weren't for all the stupid people, ministry would be so much more fun.
So I was in bed last night lamenting over the grudge that consumed me.
"Stop talking about it," said my noble, single-tasking husband.
"Let's just pray for him, right now...Dear Lord we just ask...."
I couldn't do it. I crossed my arms beneath the covers.
"I'm not ready to pray for him yet," I told God while Rob went on.
I want to get up and sharpen pencils.
Maybe when my hormones settle down...or when the moon is just a crescent...maybe then I can pray for him.
Like St. Augustine prayed: "Lord, make me good. But not yet."
When I came to from my own prayer, Rob was sound asleep. The grudge he could rightfully carry was not on him. It's then that I had to admit: It is not Rob's biology that makes it impossible for him to carry a grudge. It is his preoccupation with his mighty God. He's so busy with his single task of loving God, he can't do anything else.
So since Rob is not going to carry his grudge, I slip it onto my back beside mine - he's so lucky that I am a multi-tasker - Able to bear his grudge and my own simultaneously.
And I am lucky too...that not only does he love stupid people, he marries them.