Camp War

"Is their son at war?" the nervous bystander whispered to my sister as other anxious faces awaited her reply.

"He's eleven. He went to camp." my sister responded, suppressing a chortle as she added, "About 3 hours ago."

OK, so perhaps Gregory and I overdid the somber upon discovering a missed call on the cell from our son. War, camp...whatever! Our boy had left the home front and was out there on his own! By missing his call had we sent a message that we were not there for him? That we were out celebrating his departure? This was grave matter!

Much to my surprise, I discovered as we pulled away from Chivalry Camp that afternoon that parental distress does not go away when your child is out of your immediate care. If anything, it intensifies. I tossed and turned a good part of the first night. I wondered if he was homesick. I wondered if his mattress was comfortable, if he was warm enough, and if his pillow was hypoallergenic. I got up to place the phone on my nightstand, "just in case".

After two days of a churning stomach and distracted attention to my duties, I knew something had to be done. I had been praying diligently for him since he left, and yet I had no peace. Then it hit me. Phillip is not really mine. He has been entrusted to my care, and certainly I am responsible for his well-being, but he is not ultimately mine. He is God's.

This reminder changed my outlook entirely, restoring my peace and instilling a sense of freedom. Like Hannah before Eli, I willingly give my beloved son to God's service, and trust that as I let go, Christ will take hold.

Yes, he's eleven, and yes, he's just at camp, but in a way he is at war (or at least he is a soldier in training). The purpose of the Chivalry Camp he is attending is to train boys to be gentlemen ready to protect and defend their Faith and Christian culture. So as he learns to wield his sword, I will tie a yellow ribbon and prepare a hero's welcome for his return home, no matter how temporary it is.

L.L. Flexible

I never, EVER buy something advertised in an infomercial.

Well, until recently.

Newly discovered bingo arms and the ham hocks attached to my hips aside, I can't really explain why Chalene enticed me to agree to the 3 easy payments for Turbo Jam. Clicking the "BUY NOW" button just seemed so thrilling and full of potential ...

I was marvelling about my impulsivity again this morning as I suffered through Turbo Sculpt. It was mat time, and as I stretched my jiggly arms toward my distant toes, a revelation struck.

Flexibility. I desire flexibility.

My resourceful husband spent days on Google maps a few weeks ago, plotting a route from our driveway to the Blackwoods Campgrounds of Acadia National Park. We even knew where all the Dick's Sporting Goods stores were along the way so that we could stop to return some of the spoils from an overzealous pre-camping shopping spree. He printed out about 40 pages of maps: zoomed out, zoomed in, with points of interest and without, the route there and the route back (including a stop for Mass on Sunday at a church in Waterbury, Connecticut. We searched for a Mass time and location which would fit our travel plan for hours.) He entered each leg of the journey into a borrowed GPS as a supplement to the printed maps. We felt ready, seasoned and wise.

In stages throughout the week, however, our Boy-Scout-merit-badge-worthy preparedness developed some holes. 1. All of our research into the trip did not reveal the fact that the campground had no showers. 2. Some of the maps became campfire starter, which was fine except for that the trip back maps which were carefully removed from the fire ring vicinity got lost somewhere in the van/wimp tent, not to resurface again until we were back in our driveway. 3. Masses have no rain delays, which is unfortunate. 4. "Clean and convenient" in an on-line hotel review doesn't always tell the whole story. "Ghetto nearby" and "Scary men leering over balconies" is far more accurate.

Despite the grimness of these holes, they were opportunities to limber flabby character muscles and stretch further than I thought I could.

Same resourceful husband hooked up a primitive cleansing area with a few trees and an extra tarp. We dubbed it a "bucket bath" and steam actually rose from the top of the tarp while in use. It was surprisingly refreshing. (Photo courtesy of Allison)

Without the maps to rely on on the way home, we had to trust the GPS, and my limited knowledge of how to work it. What an opportunity for my husband to gain patience and for me to learn to make fast decisions!

Not going to Mass was a hard blow, but it led to a good discussion of avoiding legalism and the worth of an honest intention.

Without a reputable hotel in sight, we bucked up and headed straight for home. A 13-hour day in the car is a stretch for anyone, but we made it.

Now planning is a good thing, and I do not regret a moment of the prep work we did. But I am grateful for the storms that cause us to bend in the wind.

I noticed this morning on the mat that the third time I stretched my arms down my extended legs toward my toes, I was closer to reaching them than the first time (even without a map or a GPS!) Flexibility can be learned.