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.