This Little Light

 

I define myself as a wife, a mother, a sister, an artist, and still, after all this time, as a camp counselor. 

At eighteen, lost and broken, I took a summer job at a camp I had never seen. I spent nine weeks in a hot buggy swamp, living in cabins and tents, caring for Other People's Children for 23 hours a day.

I healed, I grew, I learned, and I became who I am. I am a cycle breaker because camp taught me how to love and be loved. Older staff members cared for me as if I were their own. And yet I remember, more than anything, thinking only of the campers in my care. 

That summer, and the summers that followed, my entire being focused on Other People's Children. For whatever reason, I knew from the first moment that I had a sacred responsibility. In taking that job, in standing in for the parents of all my campers, I promised to care for their children as they would want me to care. And, if I ever considered cutting corners, I reminded myself that Other People had entrusted me with their Children. I nearly always chose to try to be everything they might want me to be.

Today, I am humbled and in awe of camp staffs in Texas, who lived that sacred promise so fully.

Today, the world mourns the lives lost at Camp Mystic even as it marvels at the heroism of the camp staff there, and at their brother camp, and at all the camps along the Guadalupe River. I grieve with the survivors and I mourn, too--for all the beautiful children who were lost and for all the teens and adults who loved Other People's Children so deeply, so profoundly, even to their last breath.

Today, with matches from my camp match box, I light my camp staff candle, given to me at the service where a group of people chose to become one loving community, for a summer and for always. From my candle, I pass the flame to a candle that will burn through this first wave of mourning, letting a little light shine for all those who grieve, for all the survivors, and for those we mourn. 

Today, we are that one loving community and all children are ours. 

At the end of every camp season, we sang words we hoped would be true--may they offer us hope now: This is goodnight and not goodbye.