Camp--it will always be with me

Camp season is over. I didn't work camp this summer, but I did work as a CentriKid staffer the four summers before this one. (I wrote a few guest posts about camp at this blog.)

There are a few habits I picked up from camp, though, that I just can't shake off. Here are 7 of them:

1) The 90-second testimony

During training, we learn to give our testimony in 90 seconds--approximately the attention span of an elementary student. I became so good at this, that I don't even use all 90 seconds to tell my faith journey. Outside of camp (and sometimes during camp, actually), the 90 second testimony is kind of strange. People expect you to talk for much longer, so it's a little awkward when you finish 78 seconds later. I now try (sometimes successfully) to remember to include more details, but it is still a struggle to overcome my habit.

2) The Budget-Line

When you load and unload a Budget (or Ryder) truck full of boxes, pool noodles, sound equipment, archery targets, and a sno cone machine once a week for about 8 weeks, it's best to form a line and pass things, assembly-line style. I think this is how everything should be moved and I'm often disappointed to find that no one else believes this.

3) The Debrief

At camp, we say that anything can lead to a conversation about Christ, and try to make that happen as much as possible. We call these little Christ-application moments "debriefs." I have, in all seriousness, gone from a light-hearted discussion of a little girl's stuffed lion into a full presentation of the gospel. We would jokingly "practice" this debriefing in our free time using songs ("Ridin' Dirty" is about accountability, and the friends you choose to associate with) and other silly situations. To this day, given almost any topic, I am certain that I could figure out a way to present a biblical truth.

4) The Motions

Having served as a "back-up dancer"/motions instructor many times (once for an entire summer), it is difficult for me to hear songs sung at camp and not jump around/wave my arms/look like an idiot. I'm also pretty skilled at making up motions on the spot. Just sayin'...

5) The Alternate Lyrics

At camp, we take popular songs and change them to apply to our teams for "cheers." There are some songs that I remember the alternate lyrics to before I remember the real ones. It is slightly annoying.

6) The Games

Give me 25 kids and no props, and I can come up with 5 games to play without even having to think, not including tag. Don't believe me? Eleven, Captain's Coming, 60 seconds, Squirrels in Trees, and Look Up, Look Down. Add some rec equipment, and the possibilities are practically endless.

7) The Unmarketable Skills

Along with the skills listed above, I can also french braid, make balloon animals, fill and tie hundreds of water balloons in record time, drive a 12-passenger van, scoop a beautiful sno cone, and decorate a classroom using only butcher paper. These skills are excellent ones to have at camp...and maybe a carnival. But in the real world, not quite as impressive as an internship at a publishing house.

The truth is, I would have been more "successful" career-wise, if I had gotten an internship or a "real" job in the summers, instead of working camp. I would have gained skills that would help me make money, instead of skills that would help me be a carnie. But camp was my dream job. I grew and learned more (in addition to the amazing skills listed above) at camp than I believe I would have otherwise. I would never trade in those summers.

A Better Story

[I recently read Donald Miller's book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years and I very highly recommend it. It's about stories and life and life being a story--so make it a good one. He's going to give a conference in Portland about how to do this. For more information about the conference, go to www.donmilleris.com/conference
Also, here's a video about it:

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.

He's also holding a contest to win a free trip for two to this conference. Below is my entry.]

Jen and I met while studying abroad at Oxford University, which is an excellent beginning to a story, if you ask me. While traipsing around England and Ireland, we discovered a mutual love for Jesus and coffee shops.

Also during European exploration, I learned about a whole new category of people who need Jesus--intellectuals. I think that since intelligent, wealthy people don't need anything physically, they are often forgotten spiritually and are off the radar to most Christians.

After our semester abroad, I returned to Nashville and Jen went back to California. I worked at a Christian camp that summer, and learned of a a missionary couple in Canada that work to share the gospel at a popular university. They hope that those who become Christians there will take the message of Jesus back to their home countries and help make a difference in the entire world. The idea made perfect sense to me and, really, seemed like an excellent strategy for furthering the kingdom of God.

A couple of years and many "I-still-don't-know-what-I'm-doing-with-my-life;-do-you?" phone conversations with Jen later, I had an idea:

What if there were a coffee house that was missional with both production and consumption?

The coffee house would be in an area of wealth and intelligence--think college towns--and would have a direct relationship with the village that grows the beans used for the coffee consumed there. Not only would the costumers be aware that their coffee was grown in Costa Rica, they would know the coffee-picker's name and if his daughter needed surgery. Coffee drinking would become much more personal and coffee drinkers could help those farming their coffee in personal and specific ways. On the other end, the coffee house itself would be a place of ministry. Coffee houses are comfortable. The environment is perfectly suitable for building relationships and discussing things of importance. The hope is that those who come in to study and get a caffeine fix would find community and faith.

Immediately upon the conception of this idea, I called Jen. Two years later, we are still in the "that's a great idea" phase.

See, we still love coffee houses, but we don't know the first thing about coffee farming or running a business. I don't even know how to make a pot of coffee (I don't even like coffee...we'll need to serve tea, too). We need help. I think the Living a Better Story conference could help us get started and develop a plan of action.

We know it's crazy to think two twentysomething girls who can't even figure out what to do next week could start something so big. We know it's a huge dream, a God-sized dream. We know we'll have to work hard and we're ready. We know if we don't try to make it happen, we'll always regret it, and if we do try, the worst that could happen is failure. And we think even failure can make a great story.

Poetry Class

By the second week, we had separated ourselves. Those who wanted to be poets sat at the end of the table closest to our professor. The rest of us congregated at the other end. Don’t get me wrong, I was a poet--a doodle poet. My poems were written like doodles--when I was bored, mostly--in class, in church, in lectures. I did not desire to become a better poet.

The class was to be a workshop and those sitting closest to the professor feigned horrification while they secretly could not wait to begin displaying their talent to the creative geniuses they believed the rest of us to be. Those of us at the other end of the table were either seriously horrified, or apathetic. The apathy was directly related to how many workshop classes we had been in before, as well as how much we valued the other opinions in the room. The latter, for this end of the table, did not equal much. Each week, we would come in and read the poems our professor had selected from those we had written the week before. I both hoped and dreaded that my poem would be in those selected. I hoped it would be, because that meant I had done at least something right, and despite the fact that I did not want to be a poet, I wanted to do something right. I dreaded having my poem on the worksheet because that meant it was about to be torn apart by my peers and professor. The author of the poem was required to sit and take criticism without explanation, because, my professor said, when people read your poetry, you are usually not there to explain why you used those words.

The first week, we were to write a poem about a moment in time (or something like that). I wrote my poem and actually put some effort into it, since this was the first of the semester and I generally do put more effort into assignments when nothing else is going on. I knew my poem wasn’t good, but I thought I had done an okay job of expressing the moment. At the very least, I thought readers would get the general idea. My poem made it to the worksheet.

The class had no clue what the poem was about. At first, the professor opened up the floor for saying good things. There was silence for a while. Finally, somebody mentioned some minute thing that I had managed to accomplish on accident. Then the professor opened up the floor for saying “what needs work” in my poem. There was an explosion from one of the girls near the professor: “Adjectives! It needs adjectives!” she cried, carefully pronouncing each consonant, including the “c.” It was as if she were trying to give my poem mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I wanted to yell at her that it was still breathing.

By the time they had finished, I wanted to cry. Not that I cared.

Poetry classes, well, writing classes in general, usually lend themselves to a certain group of people. There are writers, wannabes, and those just trying to get a degree. Let’s start with the writer. At the end of the table closest to the professor, was his prodigy. He looked like a poet, with his skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and scraggly hair. He read every poem with a slow, scratchy voice that made anything sound deep and artistic. We liked when he was chosen to read our poems out loud. His poems usually lasted for an entire page, with lines spanning the whole eight-and-a-half inches of the page horizontally and he would use words that even the professor had to look up to understand. One day, he came in and told us that his poem on the worksheet had no meaning. He had literally just written some words down on a page. We still debated for 30 minutes about what the poem meant. He just sat, smiling, like he had just played a trick on all of us. I put in my opinion to get a good participation grade, and then sat back, thinking alternately about the genius of writing a poem about nothing that begs to be interpreted and the idiocy of discussing for 30 minutes what the author had already admitted was nothing.

The BFFs hovered between wannabe and writer status. They sat on the other side of the professor. One of them would write poems involving French, Latin, and made up words. I never knew what any of her poems were really about, but the professor loved them and she was published before the semester ended. The other friend wrote some of my favorite poems that semester. She loved adjectives, similes, and metaphors, and she loved poetry. The two of them would write their poems, then show each other for a pre-class critique, which I thought was unfair to the rest of us. Not only would they correct what the other thought was bad before the rest of us saw it, but they would also explain the difficult parts to each other. Therefore, at least one person in the audience knew what the poem was about and that meant the poem was a success (maybe. What is a successful poem?).

Then there were the ones just trying to get a good grade: the girl who wrote country song poems (once, we debated for half the class time about whether country songs were art. The verdict is still out.) and, of course, a girl who wrote love poems.

And the guy who was really only trying to pass. He would come in late almost every week with only a pencil behind his ear—no backpack, no notebook, no textbooks. I appreciated his honest apathy toward the class, but at the same time wondered at his bravery. Several times, he came into class and complained, “Why can’t they have classes on something that can make us money, like song writing? Poetry doesn’t sell.” At this, the writers and wannabes would exchange glances that said, “This is art, not a job.”

After the first week, my poems began to get a little better. I researched things before writing about them and included more adjectives. I looked at Crayola’s website for about twenty minutes trying to determine the name of the exact color of the dirt I wanted to have in one poem. I also went back and rewrote the first poem, looking up statistics and bug species. I spent almost an hour looking at Google images before figuring out that a bug I had seen crawl across the floor of chapel was probably a boxelder bug. I can’t be sure, but neither can my professor, so it worked.

Toward the end of the semester, I was working on my undergraduate thesis and did not make time for poetry one week. So, I did a dangerous thing—I turned in a poem that I loved. It was kind of experimental, playing with double-meanings. The structure had been inspired by a pop song and the content by a cathedral. I had worked on it off and on for an entire summer and-- the most dangerous part--I thought it was good. It did not end up on the worksheet that week. I was both relieved and sad. A couple of weeks later, though, the poem turned up unexpectedly.

I got to class early that day and the best friends were reading my poem. “We were just talking about your poem, Elizabeth. We like it.” Relief rushed over me. If the best friends liked it, the poem stood a chance. Thankfully, surprisingly, the rest of the class agreed.

That day, I was proud to call myself a poet. Not that I cared.

Imaginations

I think...
people with over-active imaginations...

are often more fun.
can sit and just do nothing for hours.
never really sit and just do nothing.
get caught often staring into space (oh, the worlds created, battles fought, and conversations had in that space!).
always somewhat believe in the existence of fairies...and monsters...and mermaids...and buried treasure.
are artists.
are dreamers.
sometimes get a little disappointed in reality.

My Best Friends' Wedding: A Rehearsal Speech Story

[This is a long one; get ready. (I won't be offended if you don't read the entire thing.)]

As mentioned before, my best friend, Erin, got married this past weekend. I was the Maid of Honor, which I was happy, and honored (yeah, I know it's a pun, but I'm serious) to be. I had many jobs to complete, not the least of which was a speech made at the rehearsal dinner.

Let me set the stage for you:

Erin had told me months ahead of time (per my request) that I would be giving a speech at some point, along with the Best Man. The week before, I learned it would be at the rehearsal dinner (later I learned I would also be giving a toast at the reception, too). I wrote a speech and read through it a couple of times to practice. I didn't memorize it, because I am awful at remembering things word-for-word. For some reason, I thought there would be some sort of podium for me to put my paper on. Looking back, I have no clue why I thought this. Why would there be a podium in a dining area?

So, the night of the dinner, we get to the dining area and I realize my hopes for a podium would not be realized. I would have to hold my paper. I knew my hands would shake--I don't really fear public speaking, but I still get shaky. As the dinner progressed, I began to get more and more nervous. I even passed up the ice cream dessert, because of my nervousness (and I really like ice cream).

Then, the Best Man gets up to make his speech. He's an actor. Like, for real--that is his profession. As you can imagine, this makes him a pretty good speech-giver.

He had memorized his. It was a comparative speech--the groom, David, to the biblical David. A literary work of art. He's acting the whole time, too, walking around and projecting his voice enough for the grandparents to hear (I'm sure they heard none of my speech).

And then he starts to sing.

Did I mention he's a Broadway actor? Yeah. So he's singing...it's a little weird at first, but then the groom joins him.

I am dead serious.

They have this whole routine--singing, joking, dancing a little. They can both sing and act. Everyone was laughing, people were pulling out recording devices, there was applause at the end--I think I even heard some "Encore!" requests.

I was hoping, at this point, that people would just forget I was supposed to give a speech. No such luck. "Lizzy, your turn!"

[There will be no pictures of my speech. I guess standing in one place, reading a sheet of paper isn't exactly photo-worthy. Or maybe it's because I look like this while giving speeches:

Yeah...]

I made some joke about Erin and I acting out The Sound of Music (which we did, once, as we watched it) and then something about me being a writer, so I would just read my speech, thankyouverymuch.

I read this speech:

I can remember the exact moment my friendship with Erin began. While we met our freshman year at Union, I thought of Erin more as my roommates' friend than my own. One day our sophomore year, Erin was in our apartment studying with Jill. After a while, all my roommates were leaving to go to choir practice. I looked at Erin and said, "See you later," thinking she would leave when her friends did. Erin looked back at me and said, "What? We can't be friends?"

And thus began our friendship.

Throughout college, we had many adventures. We were "adopted" by the same Watch Care family at church, and therefore, became "sisters." We would take road trips to Memphis, just to shop, and watch chick flicks when Jill was out of town. We lived together our senior year and survived the entire spring semester without air conditioning. Erin and I made a great team--I'd get crazy ideas for things to do and Erin would make everyone do them. We made family portraits one day in the living room, had everyone participate in the church musical, and successfully executed a graveyard scavenger hunt.

After graduation and a whirlwind trip to California, Erin and I went to train for camp. Erin was working her second summer as a Crosspoint staffer, and I was working my second summer as a CentriKid staffer. This meant that we got to train together. Now, I realize that God brought these two together, but I'd like to take a little credit as the messenger. Erin and I determined that we'd each pick out a guy for the other one on their team. Erin later told me she just picked the first guy she saw me talking to, to which I immediately said no. I, on the other hand, took time to observe her team. I knew who D-Mac was--you didn't work camp then and not know who D-Mac was. He had a reputation as being a good guy and when I saw him and Erin together, I knew he was my pick for her. I told Erin and she said no; he had a girlfriend.

Then, a few weeks later, I got a call from Erin saying that David and his girlfriend had broken up. All of Erin's calls to me the rest of the summer included observations of David. She thought he liked her, but wasn't sure. Then she knew he liked her, but didn't know anything would come of it. Well, something did come of it, obviously; that's why we're here today.

Since graduation, despite being busy with med school and dating and being engaged, Erin has been there for me any time I needed her, to talk, listen, and give sound advice. My prayer journal from the last couple of years is full of "Thank You, God, for Erin" statements. I have also prayed for Erin, and for David, and their relationship together.

Erin, you are my best friend. David, I guess that makes you my best friend-in-law tomorrow. I know tomorrow is only the first of many happy days of marriage for you two. I love y'all!

It wasn't so bad. I made it through without crying--barely--or falling over on my shaky legs.

The next day, I stumbled through a cliff-notes version of that speech (that I did not have written down. I'm pretty sure I said something like "I hope you have a bunch-many hours...days...um, years of happiness.) before the Best Man said something very eloquent about the love the couple has for each other serving as an example to the rest of us.

Then this little old man posed us for an awkward picture, and I tried to forget what just happened.

"Stand behind the microphone and act like you're giving a toast. No, both of you. No, move the microphone, it's in the way."

All photos courtesy of Pam McDaniel.

My Best Friend's Wedding: A few highlights

My best friend, Erin, got married on Saturday. The wedding was absolutely lovely and fun. Here are a few fun/funny highlights:

• As Erin directed family members to tie ribbons on the bubbles for the grand exit, we had to explain about 5 times what the bubbles were for, and then exactly how they would be used.
• Grandma Dodi's commentsat the lingerie shower. One of the best was when she wanted Erin to model all the lingerie in what she called a "slide-show." She said if Erin modeled, then all the guests could say, "We came, we saw, we conquered." haha
• Everyone (and I mean everyone) calling me Lizzy.
• The bachelorette party concluding at WalMart. Oh, Blytheville.
• Catching up with Jill and Bec and April (and Anna via a random phone call on Friday)
• 
• Sitting at the "kids' table" (which included no actual children) during the rehearsal dinner. Topics of conversation included: the over-use of exclamation points in Facebook status updates, organ donations ("Nurses are the custodians of the body world"--Steven Gunter), the artful way to use curse words, and the definition of the word "brazen."
• Rehearsal dinner speeches (more on this here)
• The bridesmaids and photographers making fun of my toes during a shoe picture. Jill: "Lizzy, your second toe is so long!" Photog 1: "We can photoshop it." Photog 2: "I don't know if we can. Look at this thing."
• Jill realizing she was the only bridesmaid with the flower on her dress, not her hair, literally one minute before she was supposed to walk down the aisle. "Do I have time to change it?!"
• Noticing 2 minutes into the ceremony that Erin's halter was about 3/4s unbuttoned and using a prayer moment to fix it before a wardrobe malfunction.
• The awkward "Are we supposed to be praying?" glances during the Family Blessing.
• At least two people congratulating me. Um, thanks?
• Older people stopping me at random to take one of those awkward, I'm-just-standing-here pictures.
• That time I handed April's baby off to a complete stranger because I had to get Erin's "undergarments" from the car.
• Dancing. 4 bridesmaids, 5 kids, 1 baby, and 1 husband. The Hokey Pokey was a huge hit.

My best friend is married. It's a little weird, and I'm a little sad that the fun weekend had to come to an end. I'm so happy for them!

Photo of the "kids table" courtesy of Pam McDaniel.

Missing

Do you ever have moments when you suddenly miss something/one/place? Maybe you haven't thought about it/them in days, weeks, months, years, but suddenly, you soverymuch wish they were with you, you were there, you could see it.

Tonight, I saw an advertisement for a job in London and my immediate thought was how much I miss England. I really love that place.

Though not as strange or sudden, I have been missing camp a little lately. It is to be expected, I suppose. I'm not beside myself like I (over-dramatically) thought I'd be, but I miss it at little moments. Mostly, I miss the team. That's probably wrong to say; I should say that I miss the kids or the Bible Study or the worship. And I do. But, mostly, I miss the team. I love, love being a part of a team.

I have also been missing my friends. At least, the ones that aren't here. My best is about to be married, and I'm already missing our friendship sans-husbands. Another friend is at camp. Several have moved out of town and state. Some are Californians, currently traveling the globe. A few old friends are here, but we don't see each other much and when we do, it is, ever so tragically, not the same as it used to be, so I miss them too.

I miss college and its simplicity, its community, its focus.

I like missing things. Sure, it's a little melancholy and sad, but it means that I have things to miss. It means that some things/people/places meant, and still mean, a lot to me. And that's just wonderful.