a few numbers

Internship is quickly coming to a close.  Here’s a look at just a few numbers:

3 – sermons I have left to preach.

2 – camps I have left to go to (one at LCLC; one is VBS)

1- bus I am trying to buy.

letter from camp

The Vicars at camp!

Ok, so I’m not at camp anymore but am comfortably settling in back at home.  I took an epic 4-hour-wake-up-jittery-and-crabby-nap when I got home yesterday.

How quickly I had forgotten how tired camp makes my whole body while re-energizing me at the same time.

I loved sleeping in my sleeping bag, eating meals in a noisy dining room, singing and dancing and jumping around with kids and adults in worship.  I loved living this life for a week.

Here are some disjointed thoughts about my week at camp:

• It was great to not be “in charge” of camp.  It also drove me a little crazy.  That’s the way I’m wired.  Meh.
• While I am careful to not say never, the call that lead me away from full time outdoor ministry continues to hold and deepen.
• If I ever was to work at camp again, I’d be so much better at the job.  Having some distance and also visiting other camps in the mean time is an incredible teacher.
• It is amazing to feel how quickly my body responds (positively) to being out in the woods where it can get quiet and dark.  I even breathe differently.
• Predator/Prey remains one of my favorite camp games.  It’s a great metaphor for jr. high and high school.
• I love junior high kids.  They are straddling a tumultuous chasm between being a kid and an adult — the strain on them is incredible.  I was reminded how difficult it was to be that age – on that edge all the time.
• I love to be in ministry with both kids and adults.  Kids typically cause less trouble.
• I met some incredible people who lead the music for the week.  They have incredible talent in working with and ministering to a wide variety of people through their music and through who they are.  Check out Tangled Blue.  Bonus:  they live in Minneapolis when they’re not on the road.
• My thoughts about church are always just beneath the surface if they are not right on the surface.  Of course camp is the church.  It was fun to talk about “bar church” with Tangled Blue (Aimee and Joel).  Check out One Punk Under God as springboard for discussion.  Discuss.  What do you think?
• Now that I’m back from camp, time is slipping quickly away.  August 16 will be here before I know it.

camp!

I am headed to confirmation camp on Sunday the 5th for confirmation camp.

I’ve learned that here in Upstate, when you say “camp” most often you mean what I would call “cabin.”  Growing up in northern Minnesota meant that people “went to ‘dalakes” for the weekend.  Here they call it camp.  Being a former camp director, this had me thinking everyone really talked about their local Bible Camp with quite the familiarity.  Not so.

However, I am headed to the classic definition of camp (Bible camp, people!) and will maybe even post from there, too.  We’ll see.  I’m in charge of taking pictures for the week, so I’ve got to bring my computer.  I am ready to be immersed in camp without the added responsibility of being “in charge.”  I think it will drive me a little crazy but mostly not.  I hope.

perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

i also had rainbow sheets and curtains

“…perhaps his death was inevitable.”

This was something uttered by a reporter on NPR as he reviewed the new Johnny Depp film and worked in a Michael Jackson reference.  I laughed out loud and was so distracted by this statement that I can’t even tell you how the reviewer related Jackson’s death to this new movie.  Perhaps, David Edlestein??

Ok, so perhaps he was referencing the early death of the King of Pop.  But his statement tells a greater truth about how shocked we are by death in general.  We just forget that, universally, this is the one thing that all human being have in common, no matter their superstardom.

Truthfully, I was thrilled to think of something to write about Michael Jackson – I was feeling left out of the frenzy.  Let me say these few things about Michael Jackson:

• Our babysitter, Jill, would play “Off the Wall” for us on her record player at her house.  That was my first exposure.
• I had the poster (see above) on my wall ala Thriller craze.
• I had Michael Jackson puffy stickers — it made all the difference to the puffy sticker that he had an afro!
• In 7th grade, our school choir sang a medly of Michael Jackson songs to a recording.  Elizabeth Albright and I would always be ahead on the dramatic “ugh!” in Beat It.
• Full disclosure:  I am a total music snob and I only own Michael Jackson’s “Number Ones,” a compilation of hits he released some years ago.

Ok.  That’s enough.

sing!

My Monday morning read-to-the-kids-at-the-preschool has now changed to “Camp songs with the Vicar” including songs with the (ominous music) school age kids.  A few teachers commented to me when they heard I was going to be singing songs with the 4 and 5 year olds and the school age kids.  ”Those school age kids won’t sing!  Good luck.”  You would think I had been shipped off to lead camp songs with prison inmates.

Singing as part of a group doesn’t happen that much anymore, at least publicly.  Most often we are sung to or performed for at the beginning of a baseball or football game.  And while singing Bon Jovi’s “Living On a Prayer” at a Twins game is hilarious and fun and dripping with nostalgia, there’s sort of a “wink-wink-nudge-nudge” feeling that accompanies it.  Like “we’re not really singing.  this isn’t really serious. it doesn’t count.”

Singing is a vulnerable activity.  It opens you up and exposes you, even when singing in a group.  It connects you to a group.  The group needs you as an individual, yet it’s not all about you.  It’s about the group and what you’re doing together.

The young kids and the school age kids sang at the top of their voices.  Some of the school agers had shy smiles when the songs got silly, but the shy smiles gave way to genuine ones as they saw they were having fun and could be themselves, as silly (or not) as they wanted to be (or not be).

someone choose who’s left and who’s leaving

Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.

“Are you mad at me?”  ”You’ll be here at 9, right?”  ”Are you on your way?”  ”I’d better see you here next week.”

These are common questions and statements I have with a handful of the “Wednesday Night people” from church.  The statements are disguised questions and demand a response from me.

Most often in my life, I have been the one to do the leaving.  I moved away with my family in jr. high; I moved to go to college, to find my way post college, and then from a camp in Illinois to a camp in Idaho.  (Let’s not forget the move back to MN from Idaho to start seminary and the move to NY for the year.  Another leaving is imminent.)

I have physically left behind large communities of people I had grown to love and still continue to love.  I have physically left behind good friendships that remain good friendships and some that have faded.  While leaving a place and people is difficult in its own way, being left is also difficult.

In large measure, the Wednesday night folks have been left behind over and over.  Some have been physically abandoned by family and friends and all have been emotionally left behind through varying forms of abuse by friends, family and strangers: physical, sexual, chemical, emotional.  The impact this has had on their lives is staggering.

And so I try to remind myself of that when I am tempted to become impatient with yet another phone call to determine the weight of my promise to them.  Or when I am asked, out of the blue, if I am angry with them or somehow going to cancel them out of my life.

Truth is, they know I’m leaving.  They knew it when I got here and it’s never been used as leverage or a threat, but part of the way this internship thing operates.  Another physical leaving awaits me, another being left behind awaits them.

It’s a shame I’ll never be able to communicate to them fully just how much of them I will take with me into the rest of my life.

reading between the lines like writing on the wall

I love stuff like this!

Writing on Sunday School classroom blackboards was always a thrill when I was a kid.  You hardly ever got to write on them at school without fear as your base reaction:  diagram that sentence?  complete that problem?  in front of everyone? To leave a message, try out some art work, or play a game of hangman for all to see seemed so, I don’t know, illegal.  And in church, no less!  So I just loved coming across this message written on Confirmation Sunday.  It’s the little things, people.

missing the bus…

It’s been about a month now that Wednesday Night church has been over, and while the change in rhythm has been welcomed and nice, I’ve got to say that I miss that intense day once a week.  There was a run-up to that part of the day that was undeniable and kept me on my toes in a whole different way.  And of course, much of this involved getting ready to get on the bus, riding the bus, picking up people, and then bringing them back home again.  It was exhausting and frustrating and oh such precious, real time with achingly real people.  It was a crucial part of my experience here as it pushed and pulled me in ways I would not have imagined.  Ministry with them was at its best and worst on the bus, having no cover of a church building to hide me.  I had no other place to be than to be with them on the bus, engaged in conversation (or not), living that small window of life together.  While many of the same people still come to church on Sunday mornings (I don’t ride the bus on Sundays), I dare say it’s the bus time that was most definitive of that part of ministry here for me.  So I guess I miss the bus.

idaho-new york report

I dare say Colbert loves Erin!

My friend from Boise, Idaho, Erin, visited me last weekend.  We had a great time avoiding an epic rain all day Saturday by going to a museum and seeing a big blockbuster movie we probably otherwise wouldn’t have seen.  Oh, plus Star Trek and Up were sold out.

Erin, to put it lightly, is a huge Stephen Colbert fan.  She loves the man, the show.  I myself carry a torch for Jon Stewart, but I also love Colbert.  I did have to explain to Erin how far NY City and Syracuse are from each other and that we (most likely) wouldn’t have any Colbert sitings on her visit.  So, I brought Colbert to her, so it was like she got to see him.  Sort of.

an afternoon nap with colbert

Erin embodies the 'cuse 'tude.

i. said. sing.

I’ve been reading to the preschool that is in the church on Mondays this year.  It’s a pretty raucous* 20 minutes and I love it.  This year, I played my guitar for the pre-K class graduation.  They sang 4 or 5 songs and I played just on one song.  This meant, however, that I showed up for practice for a few weeks leading up to the big event.  The kids practiced walking down the isle holding a fake flower.  They practiced walking up the steps and standing in the same place.  They practiced the songs.  They practiced receiving their diplomas and shaking hands.  And then they practiced walking back down the isle.  Some days it was the highlight of my day to spend that practice time with them.  I think my favorite was, just 2 days before the gradution, they practiced wearing their mortarboard caps.  As they walked down the isle, they couldn’t help but tip their heads back, such an awkward thing up there.  It was a parade of falling hats.  Hilarious.

When kids are made to sing in a group, there seem to be few options:

1. sing with gusto
2. don’t sing, look bored and miserable
3. maybe sing.  a little.  look bored and miserable.

However, this is not your average preschool.  The teacher, uh, encourages them to sing.  SING. I SAID SING.  YOU’RE NOT SINGING.  EVERYONE MUST SING.  SING.  This teacher is a kick in the pants and I really like her – she tells it like it is no matter your age or if you’re in her classroom or not.  So, these kids, having no other option than to sing, combined #s 1 and 2 above (3 is not an option).  They sing with gusto.  Some look bored, miserable, and tired, but they are singing.

Here’s a little video I took.  I stayed far enough away that you can’t identify any of them, but you can hear them loud and clear.

*this word should be spelled “rawkus”