s It's my last morning at camp this summer. I can't sleep so I sit here and write instead. In twenty-four hours I will be packing up my car, hugging my parents goodbye, and setting off with my younger brother for a week of MDS work in South Dakota, a short backpacking trip, and a week of meandering before student council orientation at the end of August. I know these are realities and I know that on some level I am incredibly excited that they will lead me back to the world of CMU: coffee shops and textbooks, libraries and lectures, acquaintances that will become close friends, Yet leaving camp is incredibly, unimaginably difficult. When I came to camp two months ago, life still felt rough. My confidence had been shattered, I was hesitant and unwilling to allow people into the quiet place of vulnerability where friendship resides, and, after two years, still did not feel at peace with God. Camp changed me. I haven't shaved my legs all summer, I want a hug, I woke up with "When Peace like a River" in my head. Camp gave me the opportunity to prove my worth to myself. Somewhere between dishes, compost, tree removal, and nature sessions I realized that I am strong and capable and have a lot to offer in making camp happen. Camp brought incredible people into my life. People who are hilarious and who appreciate my own dry sense of humor. People who make everyone around them feel important and accepted. People who sass and play pranks...and never fail to check in and offer a hug. People who make mistakes and fail at realizing they are enough. People who offer grace and forgiveness, mercy and understanding, and love. People who love. Amidst these wonderful, incredible people and within this oh most sacred space, I have come to a better understanding that I, too, am loved. When I left Service Adventure a little over two years ago, my world was turned upside down. All of the confidence and peace I had felt growing up in the church community in which I had was gone. I was angry and frustrated at God. I could no longer believe in some supposedly loving old dude up in the sky. But as I've begun my life-long study of theology, I've come to realize that I do not have to. I am not alone in viewing God as a reality. As an element of holiness beyond human understanding that we are lucky enough to sometimes brush up against in our awareness. God as being in and through everything. Not in some creepy "always watching" Santa Clause/cosmic cop way but rather as an aspect of ourselves and the world around us. When we view God as a part of reality, the Bible can then be viewed as it was written: an example of communities living out their lives: creating habits, rituals, and lifestyles that committed them to faithfully seeking God. It records that within their humanness, their mistakes and brokenness, God continued to work. Camp, too, works this way. Living together--breaking bread (bierocks) together; working, playing, and resting together; existing in close proximity to nature; practicing forgiveness; praying; singing; defying gender stereotypes; living as healthy role models for one another and the next generation--has allowed camp life to become a communal life of worship. It is filled with all of the beautiful mistakes and beautiful healing that life offers. In these elements and many more, camp seeks out God: the reality (not limited to) seeking goodness, love, and acceptance for all (and in particular the underdog), that is within us and around us. I wanted to work at camp because it is something in which I believe. Here, however, I once again realized that life is not limited to theories and textbooks. In living out community, in offering forgiveness, grace, mercy, and understanding, I bumped up against God, others, and myself in a way I had only hoped I could again. Watching junior high boys grab hands and dance together, catching my breath during a game of tag in the river, grilling hamburgers for senior high, closing my eyes and letting a hymn carry me--these were my moments of holiness. Moments where I met a reality bigger than myself and my understanding, moments where everything felt right with the world, moments of peace, moments of God. I don't know what this next school year will hold. I know it will be difficult at times. I know academically I will be pushed. I will question why I thought bike commuting in winter in Winnipeg was a good idea. I will not do well on some assignments, I will probably forget my lunch once or twice, and I will almost certainly show up late at some point. But I will make deep, lasting friendships, I will receive comments back on papers that leave me feeling like I could soar with confidence. I will become a better writer, a better thinker, a better scholar, a better person. And when I need to, I will look back at pictures and letters from camp. I will remember that I am capable of giving and receiving abundant love and grace. I will remember how desperately I hoped last spring that life would feel better and I will remember that right now, on this cloudy late-summer morning, that my heart, aching at leaving because of the love it has experienced, is proof that it does.
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Elizabeth SchragAdventurer. Biblical and Theological Studies major. Borderline Vegan. Rebel with a cause. Archives
March 2017
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