I have had the good fortune to attend several different church camps over the years. I’ve gone as a pre-camper and a regular camper, a junior counselor and a regular counselor. Most recently I’ve been a counselor/Bible teacher/craft lady. (Space is limited at our camp so every adult has to wear a lot of hats.) It takes a ton of planning, packing, and preparing before; washing, itching, and airing out after to make a week of church camp successful, so why do we do it? I’ll answer that question with the following reminiscences: One of my favorite things about visiting different church camps is the variety of traditions. At the very first camp I attended, they had a special initiation for new campers. Without giving away too much, it involved someone in a tribal costume, a baseball bat, and a wet washcloth that the unsuspecting camp newby would eventually sit on. This same camp began every morning around the flagpole with the national anthem before breakfast. Then we couldn’t eat breakfast the second day unless we could present a stamped and addressed letter home to mom and dad. As a teenager, my family went to churches that had no youth group and thus no church camp so I went to camp with friends. One camp had a surprisingly serious cabin vs. cabin lip synch competition. I played a very believable Ringo on the drums in “She Loves You.” They also asked many of us to participate in The Dating Game. One night, I was the “winner” and was treated to a candy bar at the Snack Shack with my date. It was as full of romance as you would expect. That is if you expect romance 1) at the Snack Shack, 2) with someone who would not have picked you if not for an inconvenient partition wall separating the bachelor from his three choices, and 3) it’s romantic to be gawked and hooted at by your date’s obnoxious friends. When I was in college, I went to camp as a full-fledge counselor. I was so excited and nervous to slip into the shoes of people I had admired for years. Counselors who knew to bring playing cards and hair rubber bands and scissors and clothesline and shaving cream and dozens of cans of Deep Woods Off. (If you’re not sure what the above list is for, you may not have ever been to a real church camp.) So when I got the list of eleven-year olds that would be in my cabin, I made them each a hair scrunchie with a personalized note and a tiny sized candy bar. These were first time campers and I felt the weight of their apprehension on my shoulders. Then something natural and yet unforeseen happened. It began with one girl running to find me in the mess hall a day and a half into the week. She led me back to her friend who waited for her return in the latrine. “I’m bleeding!” she moaned to me through the closed stall door. I ran back to my cabin and found a maxi pad and a pair of her undies. I talked her through the application of the adhesive strip as I rinsed her soiled undies in the sink. This was her first ever period. Understandably, she asked to call her mom on the pay phone in the mess hall so she could come and get her. After she left, five more girls experienced their entrance into womanhood at the not-so-capable hands of Counselor Abby throughout that week. I think I would’ve rather that they passed around chicken pox instead. For the past two years, I have attended a church camp with my husband Brent and our three kids. Our camp directors do an amazing job of keeping the kids busy and happy. As I mentioned, one of my jobs at this camp is to help with the crafts. Watching kids ages 9-13 battle for craft supplies is a Darwinian case study. There’s a finite amount of brushes, paints, screwdrivers, etc and it becomes dog-eat-dog around the craft table. It may be true that the meek shall inherit the earth but I’m not so sure they’ll ever get that bowl of yellow paint. Older girls, buoyed with self-confidence and purpose, smile at younger campers and say, “Can I see that brush…just for a second?” Before you know it, she’s got the brush at her table and she might as well be painting the Sistine Chapel for the amount of time it’s taking her to finish with it. I assumed I was asked to help with crafts because I’m fairly crafty but really it’s because I grew up with two sisters, am raising twin daughters, and I know when you have to step in and help a sister out. As of this year, my favorite camp memory is actually something that didn’t happen at camp. Let me explain: About a week before camp, I had a dream that we were at camp and we got an email informing us that we finally had a match for our adoption. I told my husband and my fellow counselor about my dream. (She’s the camp photographer so I warned her, half-jokingly, that I’d need her to take pictures of the moment when we told our kids.) The more I thought about it, the more it felt like it might really happen. We’ve been waiting for a match ever since we sent in our paperwork in November so there’s no real reason to assume it to be that week—I just had a feeling. Brent tried to check email on his phone several times, but the service was spotty. When we got home on Saturday, we unpacked, looked at the bills and magazines, watered the dead flowers in the planters on the porch, and Brent checked email. Sure enough, we had received an email with attached photos and medical information for a precious 16 month-old named Philippe. It had come the day before and we had missed it. I’m not sure why the big reveal didn’t come out the way I had dreamed but maybe that’s just the way it is with church camp. You plan and prepare for nearly every contingency, but in the end you have to just go with it. Some of the most meaningful memories happen when a young heart is pulled toward Christ, new friendships are forged, or you find in yourself an independence that you never knew you had. And maybe none of that was truly planned. I’m so thankful for all my church camp memories and I pray that my kids will have golden ones as well.

About ten years ago, I became a certified Control Freak. (Coincidently, it was also about the time when I became a mom…go figure.) Lately, I really feel like God is using my normal involuntary bodily functions to teach me that directing my own destiny is nothing but a delusion—there are some things that are just beyond our control. Here are some recent examples: I went on a tour of a dental office a few weeks ago. We were supposed to begin at noon and I assumed it would be over in half an hour. Unfortunately for my stomach it went on way past my regular lunchtime. The bowl of cereal I had eaten at 7:00 was long gone and my stomach started to make a hollow rumble during the tour guide’s informative lecture. “Here are our state of the art lab facilities…” “Grrrr…” I attempted to mask that sound with a tiny throat-clearing. “Over here, you can see our office suites…” “Grrroooowwwwlll…” Much louder this time. I had to fake a full blown choking cough. There was nothing to do but continue to growl and cough my way through the entire tour. My body was betraying me. I didn’t need to hear that I was hungry. I could already feel it! Recently, I went to a dermatology appointment. (I should say first that my dermatologist is wonderful and I completely entrust him with all my skincare needs. This is important information so that you won’t think he’s creepy when you finish reading this.) This was a follow-up appointment to monitor the results of the regimen he had prescribed for me. Using the back of his hand, he stroked my cheek to test the smoothness of my skin. This was a reasonable and effective method but I could feel a hot blush rise from my jaw line to my hairline. Nobody—not even my sweet husband—strokes my cheek like that. He continued to test the area and stare without blinking at my face. Then he said, “It looks good. Hmmm… I hadn’t noticed it at first but it is a little splotchy. Just a little reddening…” I WAS BLUSHING! Not that he should know this but I’m a splotchy blusher. The more I tried to stop blushing the worse it got until I could feel sweat running down my side. It’s hard to give up control. We live in “Make It Happen, Cowboy/Soldier/Under Dog” America. You don’t stop until you accomplish the task at hand or die trying. So how do balance it all? “Relying not on worldly wisdom but on God’s grace?” I’ve had the most difficult time relinquishing control during the past year as we’ve tried to adopt a baby from Africa. We filled out the papers, had them notarized and mailed to anyone and everyone. We asked friends to write glowing recommendations and sent off for numerous copies of all our birth certificates. We did everything that was asked of us and now we wait and wait and wait. There’s no definite timeline to point to and no ever-increasing belly to measure. It all depends on the whims of African officials and a bureaucratic system that I couldn’t hope to comprehend. Or does it? I’m learning that God asks us to act but He doesn’t expect us to make it all happen. He wants us to step out in faith to do something big but though that first step may be done by us, He promises to provide for us all along the way. We may come upon the occasional Red Sea that seems insurmountable, but He’ll help us find our way across if we’ll only plant our feet on the dry ground He’ll provide. I’m struggling with the utter slowness of this process. I want to hear good news that proves that all of this preparation and expense hasn’t been in vain. During the few times that I’ve let God relieve me of the frustration, I can almost hear him say: “I’ve got this, Abby. You’ve got no idea how little you’re in control of anything. Please trust me. You’ll see.” That’s my prayer tonight. I pray that I will stop trying to strategize and organize all aspects of my life. I announce my retirement as Control Freak. Instead, I’d like to give the control to Him who can spin the planets with a twirl of his finger. He can depose kings with a nod. And He can make all the arrangements to place a lonely child in the arms of a loving family.

It’s official. All three of our kids have now asked me that dreaded question. No, it’s not the one about where babies come from, though we’ve already been through that. This one is much more difficult to explain. You can use drawings and science to explain human reproduction but you can’t find any helpful visual aids for this question: Why does God let bad things happen? That’s the one that stops me in my tracks. My go-to answer usually sounds something like this: “Well, you know, if Eve hadn’t picked that fruit in the garden we’d still be living there. She disobeyed God and the world has been full of sin ever since.” I’ve used Eve as the scapegoat so many times that I’m pretty sure she’s going to punch me in the face when I get to heaven. “You’re Abby, right?” she’ll say, “Thanks for blaming me for tornados!” Then pow! That may not be fair to Eve. I’m not clairvoyant enough to guess alternative endings for the beginning of man but I’ve known quite a few humans over the years and I can say with some certainty that we would’ve found a different way to disobey and screw up paradise even if it didn’t involve fruit trees. What makes this question so difficult to sort through with my kids is that I don’t always believe my own answers. A God as mighty as He is could prevent death and destruction. Either I don’t believe in the extent of His mightiness or I don’t believe in the reach of His compassion. No matter how you look at it you come out feeling unsatisfied. At some point during this deep theological discussion with my six-year old I had to own up to the fact that I couldn’t adequately answer his question about God’s action vs. God’s inaction. I could give him Biblical corroboration and anecdotal testimony but no proof. Eventually I had to say, “Knox, sometimes we just have to trust God and be okay that we don’t have all the answers.” After I said it and Knox happily went off to do whatever carefree six-year old boys do, I actually felt relief. I wasn’t as frustrated by my own ignorance as you might have expected. I realized that I have a lot of questions of my own: Why do square envelopes require more postage than rectangle ones? Why do our goldfish keep disappearing and where are they going? Who keeps pooping on our pool cover? Those are just the ones I’ve asked in the last five minutes. I could keep going… As I watched Knox turn and run off to play, I understood a tiny bit why Jesus asked his disciples to be like the little children. They are often satisfied with answers that rely on God’s sovereign yet undisclosed plan for them. Maybe it’s because they have to rely on others (mainly adults) every day to provide all the basics that keep them clean, healthy, and happy. When you become the adult provider you start to assume that you must always know everything about everything and if they sell it at Target. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s okay not to have all the answers. It’s fine to say those three little words: “I don’t know.” It’s also great to ask questions that we can’t answer. I want my kids to keep asking even if I have to keep answering with a “let’s look it up.” Maybe if we keep talking they’ll teach me a few things. Right now I would be happy just to know who’s pooping on the pool cover.

Like most people who have managed to make it past childhood, I have my share of scars. There’s the one on my chin from when I tripped myself jump-roping in gym class in the second grade. Unfortunately, I had the part of a graceful Sugar Plum Fairy (type casting!) in the school play the following night. The gigantic butterfly band-aid on my chin made it difficult for me to say my one and only line: “Hello, Santa!” I resembled a ventriloquist’s dummy when I attempted to open and close my mouth. I was so concerned about how I would be able to deliver my line that I accidentally said, “Hello, Daddy” instead. Hello, daddy. Good-bye, Broadway. I have another scar on my left shin from where I nearly met my Maker slipping down a steep gorge at Fall Creek Falls. I was there for church camp. I’ve never been very fast in physical endeavors (but I make up for lack of speed with endurance—I am the tortoise) so I usually gravitate to the back of the herd on hikes. That places me comfortably among children, the aged, and the infirmed. On this particular hike, a pre-camper was lingering near the edge of a sheer drop-off. I pulled him out of harm’s way and slipped part of the way down myself. I employed the babysitter’s second best advice: Do as I say not as I do. My shin was sliced open by a series of jagged rocks. It was a painful limp back to the cabin. Many of the scars I’ve collected as an adult have been through the misadventures of cooking. Years ago, I had baked two pans of coffee cake in glass pie plates. I wanted to see if they had cooked all the way through so—with hands awkwardly fitted with bulky oven mitts—I held the pan aloft above my head to check the bottom. The searing-hot pan slipped from my hands and my stupid reflexes kicked in. (Where were these quick-as-lightning reflexes when I was sliding down the side of a rocky ledge?!) I caught the pan in the crook of my arm, heard a slight sizzle, and let the pan fall to floor. It took me about two seconds to get a chunk of ice from the freezer for my arm before I joined my sister on the floor to eat the cake. (The three-second rule was in play so I had to put aside pain for the sake of coffee cake.) My most extensive scars are seen by just two people: my husband and my GYN. Those are my stretch marks. These smooth, purple strips of ripped-and-healed-over skin cover the front of my belly like I’m wearing an understated WWF belt. I can’t remember what my stomach looked like B.T. (before twins). I look at women at the beach who are called “mommy” by at least six children (and one of which is a newborn perched on mom’s slender hip) but wear a string bikini and have NO stretch marks. Are you kidding me? How is that possible? I have a friend who swears by a cream that she rubbed on her belly for all three of her pregnancies. I tried said cream but no luck. I think you either have skin that can stretch and draw back with the elasticity of a balloon or you don’t. I don’t. I’ve read books that have key characters with distinguishing scars. These scars define them as mistreated victims or resilient survivors or both. Sometimes the scar is defined by the other characters as beautiful and profound, but I’ve always thought it hard to imagine that the person with the scar feels fully glad to have it. But now, with a few years under my stretch mark belt, I’m starting to realize what a scar can represent. I may have busted my chin and flubbed my lines in the second grade play but it was my first taste of amateur theater and I was hooked. (In high school, I was more of a backstage person. You can have band-aids all over you and no one will notice.) I may have cut up my leg on that hike but I was eventually awarded a plaque that said “Most Inspirational Camper.” (It really should’ve said “Most Likely To Go To Church Camp Without Hooking Up With A Boy”) I have lost count of all of the times that I’ve burned myself in the kitchen, but I’m happy to say that I’ve become a moderately good cook in the process. I’m never going to be the stomach model for those antacid commercials that show an x-ray view of the churning acid that dissolves when you take Prilosec, but I carried my daughters to thirty-eight weeks. My skin stretched perfectly around them as they formed inside of me and I was glad to rent it out to them. (Though they won’t get their deposit back.) These scars make me who I am—the good, the bad and the ugly. I’m most convinced about the necessity of scars by the words of I Peter 2. “When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly. He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.”

I teach a Bible class for four- and five-year olds at my church every Sunday morning. It’s my favorite age to teach. They are old enough to listen and understand the Bible stories but young enough that when I “roll the gospel chariot” they don’t look at me like I’m a total idiot. If you’ve never had the privilege of sitting in a folding chair with ten precious children surrounding you in a semi-circle at your feet, you’re really missing out. As a special treat for those of you who have never experienced it, here’s how a typical morning would go: (I’ve just read the story from Mark 7 when Jesus healed the deaf and mute man. I’m prepared for some questions seeing as how Jesus “put his fingers into the man’s ears. Then he spit and touched the man’s tongue. He looked up to heaven and with a deep sigh said to him, “Be opened!”’ The story only encourages five-year olds to go off-message.) “So what was wrong with this man?” I ask, pointing to the picture in my hand. “He was deaf!” The majority of the class rings out in unison. One boy raises his hand. “One time…” (Nearly every five-year old’s story starts with “one time.”) “One time my mommy was giving my daddy a haircut and she cut his ear.” “One time,” another girl chimes in, “My mommy dropped a glass in the sink and it broke into a hundred pieces. Then…” (Uh oh. Here it comes. This particular little girl hasn’t told a regular story all year. Every one of her harrowing tales must end with an unexpected twist. I wouldn’t be surprised if she grows up to be a screenwriter for a soap opera. Her best story ever ended in her own death. She apparently drowned when her mom threw her in a swimming pool full of sharks.) She continued: “Then my mom picked up the glass and there was a doughnut on it! (pause for effect) And she ate it!” “Me and my grandma wear our pajamas when we wake up in the morning but you know what my grandpa wears?” asks a different little boy. “What?” I ask nervously, hoping I’m not about to find out something very personal about his grandfather and his chosen sleeping attire. “He wears his regular clothes.” Phew! That was a close one. Another hand goes up. “Okay, last one,” I say as I point to the outstretched hand in the back. “Do you wanna hear how a dog laughs? Brrr-ha-ha-ha. Brrr-ha-ha-ha,” he says with all the seriousness of a professor giving a college lecture. All hands have been called on and the kids are ready for paper crafts and goldfish crackers. Another fulfilling Sunday school class is coming to a close. Next week they will return with more stories and animal facts. I will try to remain in charge of this lively group, hoping they won’t notice that the kids outnumber the adults and a coup would be all too easy.

I have always loved to pretend. When I was little I would pretend that I had blue eyes and blond hair. It became so real to me that I remember being stunned one day to see a little girl with brown eyes and a brown bowl-cut staring back at me in the floor length mirror mounted on the back of my parents’ bedroom door. My sisters and I pretended every scenario we could think of. We were preachers, teachers, shopkeepers, and mothers. We “lived” in tree branches, under the front porch, and in blanket forts. We acted out scenes from TV show, movies, and books. But at some point during those tricky “tween” years pretending became childish. Instead of Barbie-themed birthday parties, I was invited to pool parties with Duran Duran on the invitation. When I had a friend over, we didn’t play make-believe in the tree house anymore. Instead we rode bikes around the neighborhood to see who was playing in their yard. I continued to use my imagination but I kept it locked away inside my head. I pretended what it would be like to have a boyfriend without actually having one. I pretended what I would do if my family died in a tragic disaster and I had to make it all alone in this cruel world. I pretended what I would say if a popular girl at school accused me of something and I had to defend myself. (Too many Sweet Valley High books. They’re like pouring gasoline on fire for an already dramatic child.) Even now, I can still create a completely fictional scenario in my head that will bring me to tears. Having kids is the best thing for a lapsed pretender. It’s like riding a bike—all of those skills come rushing back. I knew exactly how to eat and drink imaginary food when my girls got their play kitchen and we had our first tea party. I quickly realized that their level of fun increased the more I stepped up my pantomiming. (Tip: If you’re new to this, always blow on the cup of tea to indicate that it’s too hot. They love it. I also always accidentally spill my cup on my pants so that I have to wipe it up with an invisible napkin.) At church last night, I got to have a pretend picnic with a five year-old who has Down Syndrome. He has very limited speech but his imagination is amazing. When he drank invisible liquid from the miniature Tupperware cup, he made very realistic swallowing sounds. Then he picked up a plastic lemon and squeezed it over half of a plastic bun before eating it in giant Cookie Monster bites. He methodically placed plastic French fries in an empty plastic taco shell. As he angled the meal into his mouth, the French fries slipped out the back and fell onto the floor. He laughed until tears welled in his eyes. He was completely engaged in the reality of his pretending. Now that my daughters are nearing ten, I’m loathed to think that their days of playing house and school will soon be over. I love to walk in on them as they are chastising their imaginary students for being too loud during circle time. My girls call these ghosts out by name: “Polly…you can’t sit by Horace anymore.” They are completely serious. I want to freeze them here. I want their pretend tragedies to be manageable and brief. (Like me, they also love to pretend their family has all died. I blame the Boxcar Children series. I once overheard one of them say, “I wish I was an orphan!” It didn’t hurt my feelings at all.) They will eventually learn that life is full of painfully real tragedies that they can’t pretend their way out of. Life will turn them upside-down and make them yearn for days spent playing and dreaming. And then one day they will sit across a tiny table from their own children. They will blow away imaginary steam from a tiny plastic teacup and remember how good it feels to pretend again.