Summer Camp

Every time I walk outside in the woods in the summer, I remember my weeks away from home at summer camp when I was a kid, and I think of it because of the smell. The deep, musky, musty, spicy smell of summer. Of rotting wood and growing leaves. Of wet soil and tall grass. I went to camp for one week every year from third to sixth grade. That summer after sixth grade was my first year in middle school camp. That week was a great revelation to me. I learned about shaving my legs. I remember sitting on the porch of the lodge, looking around at all of the smooth legs and realizing I was the last girl left, who hadn't known any better (homeschooled, of course), still with soft blond fuzz covering my shins. After I got home, I got out one of my Dad's cheap disposable razors and went to work, and I remember sheepishly trying to hide the razor from Mom in a towel when she suddenly popped her head in the bathroom. As influential as that week was, I never again felt the need to go back to camp.

But there are two specific spots at Kenbrook Bible Camp that the smells of summer always bring back to me. Woodsy smells bring me back to a little dirt path that wound it's way down the hill to a tiny lake. The other is a big grassy meadow where we went to play capture the flag and where they held the crucifixion scene of the passion play produced each week for a new group of campers.

The camp was full of delightful places, and as much as I was feeling awkward there in my middle school years, I dearly loved it, and a week was far too short for me in upper elementary. There was a craft hut, full of pipe-cleaners and buttons and glue. There was a gift shop with little stuffed animals and all kinds of candy, and a bandanna with a map of the camp printed on it. There was a pool of course, with early morning swims, and an archery field, which I adored.

Last weekend I was privileged to be a delegate for my church at the BIC General Conference in Toronto. I have never been more impressed with a group of people in my life, or with the breadth of wisdom, ministry and geography for such a relatively small denomination. Kenbrook came up in conversations with others that I met there as it is run by the BIC, and I have been pondering how the church, in my case the BIC, or the church as a whole, has an arm that spreads through our whole life. My church offered half-off scholarships to go to camp, if you memorized a passage of scripture. Tonight as I walked, I tried to recite,

"I lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from God, the maker of heaven and earth. He will not let my foot slip. He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep."

And this is as far as I can go, but in fourth grade or so, I could have spouted the whole thing. This brings me to my quizzing years. Bible quizzing is not for the faint of heart, as in order to be competitive, students in middle school and high school memorize whole books of the Bible in a year. I stuck it out for a couple of years myself, not really getting to the memorizing stage, and then faded out in high school. But this week at general conference, I cheered for my church's quiz team as they quoted verses from Galatians to Colossians, and dueled teams from other churches in fierce, but loving competition, always congratulating a correct answer and always encouraging after a wrong one.

And now after the General Conference, I still pondering all that goes into church ministry and the strength of serving him together in unity. We learned about our brothers and sisters in other parts of the world, and not pleasant parts, like Zimbabwe and Cuba. We reviewed our connection and covenant with Messiah College, and with other related ministries to all kinds of people from the mentally disabled to children in India. We also discussed some big domestic issues like health care, budgets, and same sex marriage. All throughout the conference there was no doubt that the hearts of all were in unity, but the particulars needed a lot of discussion, and there were some very heated moments.

Anyway, as I walked this evening, I felt very blessed breathing the hot, humid summer air, and beside a bubbling little stream, and looking over the cornfields, green with the recent rain. Again, some words from a familiar Psalm came to mind, that perhaps I learned in fifth grade.

"Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Savior, Teach us so to Rise!

Note to Readers: This post was started last week on Easter evening. It needed some serious editing, though, so this Sunday morning, as I am passing time in the Cincinnati airport, soon to be home, was the perfect time to clean it up and get it posted.

Go to dark Gethsemane, ye that feel the tempter’s power;
Your Redeemer’s conflict see, watch with Him one bitter hour,
Turn not from His griefs away; learn of Jesus Christ to pray.

See Him at the judgment hall, beaten, bound, reviled, arraigned;
O the wormwood and the gall! O the pangs His soul sustained!
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss; learn of Christ to bear the cross.

Calvary’s mournful mountain climb; there, adoring at His feet,
Mark that miracle of time, God’s own sacrifice complete.
“It is finished!” hear Him cry; learn of Jesus Christ to die.

Early hasten to the tomb where they laid His breathless clay;
All is solitude and gloom. Who has taken Him away?
Christ is risen! He meets our eyes; Savior, teach us so to rise.

words by Pennsylvania hymn writer James Montgomery


My Dad has been studying the great hymn writers of Pennsylvania for several years now. There are more than you would think. Great hymns like "What Can Wash Away My Sin" were written right here in our own backyard. What a heritage and inheritance!

I love hymns. I love them like I love my church, the soil in my garden and the pillow I rest my head on each night. I feel like my soul has been steeped in them since I was an infant, and I can not remember a time that I did not know the most familiar of them. On the other hand, in the last few years, since my Dad has begun his studies, and since I began to listen to Indelible Grace music, (an ongoing project by Reformed University Fellowship to write contemporary music for the words of old hymns. Not because the old music isn't great, but to try to hook college kids on old, meaty, excellent, words. It worked for me!) I have discovered how much I don't know.

The above hymn is a perfect example. I first heard it after getting the new Indelible Grace CD for Christmas. This hymn is rewritten and sung by Sandra McCracken, one of my favorite musicians. The thing about this music is that it is dense. Very dense. The words and their rich, profound meanings are packed so tightly that I probably listened to this song about thirty times before I started to "get it." But once I did...I can't help but lift my hands as I drive down the road on each early morning commute.

Then I sat at my Dad's kitchen table one day, and he showed me a newsletter that he wrote for his church and was mailing out to the congregation. Easter was coming soon, so he closed the newsletter with a verse of a hymn by James Montgomery, who is one of the PA hymn writers he often talks about. As I read it, it began to click in my mind. It was the last verse of "Go to Dark Gethsemane". Looking at the words, they began to sink in a little bit more. Phrases like "his breathless clay", and "teach us so to rise" started sticking in my head.

On good Friday, I attended my church's Tenebrae service with John and opened the bulletin to found "Go to Dark Gethsemane". Very fitting for a Good Friday service, and for the first time, I heard and sang the words with their original music. It is lovely and temperate and somber. The last verse, though, wasn't there. Perhaps it was removed because it would jump ahead of the crucifixion and rush us into the resurrection. But when I looked in other hymnals, they also included only the first three verses.

This morning, Easter morning, the sanctuary was transformed. From the black drape hanging on a rugged wooden cross to a sprawling mound of lillies and golden forsythia. From dark candlelight to the sun pouring in the windows. From soft piano to trumpet and timpani, the glory, the Shekinah, of the Lord radiated through the room and through my heart and out from my eyes. And pastor Gene reminded us that all of our church, each person's involvement, and all of the care that we receive there is only, only because of what we celebrate this day, that Jesus conquered sin and death and is alive. And he is! He is alive and he is good and worthy of all the praise that we can try to give.

Last night John did a Google search for "Go to Dark Gethsemane", and he sent me the words to verse four. So, just as it says in Ephesians, that "his incomparably great power for us who believe...is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead...", Savior, teach us so to rise!