When I think back on my summer at Doe River Gorge, it isn’t the stuff or the activities or the antics that stand out. It isn’t the grueling 8:00am to midnight schedule filled with high adventure, Bible study, worship and investment time. It isn’t the hours spent listening to the TVA hotline for the local lake and stream data to see how high (or low) the Doe River was that day. It isn’t even the amazing food that was served 3 times a day, 5 days a week. It isn’t the daily briefings, the seemingly endless equipment logs to fill out, the games or the office time. What stands out the most, shouldn’t be surprising; it’s the people.
Just like the childhood song says, “The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is the people.” That couldn’t be truer than at Doe River Gorge. The people are not only the church, they make our church what it is. In the words of my friend Billy, “You are Jesus to me.” We are Jesus to each other, which is how it should be.
I think of Renee, who at the very beginning of the summer didn’t understand why we were always talking about love and hugs and “mushy stuff.” Having grown up without a strong family support system, she said she couldn’t identify with this love we all claimed and she certainly couldn’t identify with hugs. During staff training she would politely stand still while you hugged her, but let it be known that she was not a “touchy-feely person.” A hug that went on too long (approximately 3 seconds) was subject to polite recoil, and a quick, “Okay, that’s enough.” But Renee knew this about herself, and knew that this couldn’t be right. She shared one day that she wanted to be able to give people hugs and be able to say “I love you,” and mean it. She inherently knew that there was more than the social coolness she had been raised with, and she wanted it.
Over the summer—over 12 hard weeks of work where you have no choice but to be in each other’s business 24-7—Renee slowly warmed to love and hugs. I remember a day that had been particularly hard for her (I don’t remember the reasons why now) but at the end of a good conversation about it I asked if there was anything more I could do. Swallowing tears she asked, “Can I have a hug?” Ah, breakthrough! I joyfully gave her one, for as long as she would allow. By the end of the summer, hugs were a special part of her greeting. She looked me in the eye on the last day of camp and told me she loved me. It meant more than I could ever say.
I think of “Karen”. Karen was a camper (what DRG calls “Questers”) during the last week of camp. Without fail, every year, week 10—the last week—brings the hardest, most challenging group of Questers. Typically, the Quester population for week 10 is comprised of 1) home schooled children, 2) resident students from Mountain Mission School in Grundy, VA, and 3) the youth group called One7 from Charlotte, NC. The home schooled children are, of course, just like our “bell curve” Questers, but the groups from Mountain Mission and One7 are anything but. Both groups are largely comprised of illegal aliens or the children of illegal aliens; refugees and immigrants from places such the Sudan, Rwanda, Ethiopia and Kenya; refugees of the Montagnard (Degar) indigenous group of Vietnam, ostracized in part due to their aiding American forces during the Vietnam War and still under heavy persecution from the Vietnamese majority. The children in these groups are not only poor—most came literally with just the shirts on their backs, some are orphans, many live in single parent homes, many never know where their next meal is coming from, to several English is still a broken foreign language; and those are just the physical needs. The spiritual hunger runs much deeper. What these children know of Christ is what they have been taught since their time in the States. Religious beliefs are as varied as their backgrounds: Muslim, forms of Catholicism, traditional beliefs, confusion is rampant and most believe they have no use for any god. Karen was no exception.
A student at Mountain Mission School, Karen had lived in the States for several years after fleeing from her home in the war-torn Sudan. She told her counselor that she had no use for our God, didn’t want to be at the Gorge, and only came because her friends did and her school made her. Unsurprisingly, after living in such as place as the Sudan, Karen suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which most commonly manifested itself in screaming fits. As a staff, we were warned of this, usually brought on by unfamiliar situations where Karen was surrounded by unfamiliar people. Fortunately, she came with a group of her friends who were no strangers to her fits and who were prepared for them if they should happen. It was us who were unprepared. I’ll never know what brought it on, but one day towards the end of lunch, without warning, Karen collapsed on the ground writhing in invisible pain, screaming and gasping for air. My first aid training told me it was some kind of severe seizure, but I had seen seizures before, and this was different. This was terror. Tears ran down her cheeks as we tried to restrain her; someone ran for the medical staff while another ran for her friends. All of them quickly came, speaking comforting words—such as we could manage—and calling her name, telling her everything was alright; that she was safe. Once the fit passed, Karen lay on the floor getting her bearings. He friends gathered around her trying to cheer her; the medical staff did a quick exam to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself. I looked at my friend Megan and both of us could only think of one question: “What kind of hell was that?” I couldn’t imagine any situation in my life that would cause me to relive such a horrid moment with such terrifying clarity as to literally fear for my life. Suddenly, her words about God made sense, too. Who would have a use for a God that allowed such things to happen?
As is so often the case, even when we have no use for God, He has a use for us. Her counselor told us at the end of the week that at the last worship service of the week—and of the summer—something changed in Karen. I’m sure He was working all week long in her, but suddenly she said, “I want to know Christ.” She said she could feel God tugging at her heart, and that she knew He was the only solution; she finally wanted to know Him. She left the Gorge a believer, aware that her PTSD would not “magically” clear up or get better—it might even get worse—but empowered and free to know the Truth of who could help her handle it.
I think of the young Quester who came week one, who’s name I never even got the opportunity to know, but who I taught to tie her shoes. Out at the Challenge Course, she had a pair of loosely tied “skater shoes” that I asked her to tie tighter so they wouldn’t come off her feet. She refused, so I jokingly asked, “What? Don’t you know how to tie your shoes?” She looked me straight in the face and said, “No. No one ever taught me.” I knew she wasn’t joking by the look in her eye, so I sat her down on a nearby log and taught her to tie her shoes.
I think of the time that the girl half of our leadership team decided to make the boy half of the leadership team dinner. They were all so impressed and thankful for a home cooked meal, you would have thought they all won the lottery. It was a lesson in how the little things really mean a lot.
I think of Jesse, in his black fedora with his guitar in hand singing his heart out for whoever would listen.
I think of Kevin and Trish and their nice cameras who take amazing pictures that really capture the heart and soul of their subjects.
I think of Ben, Taylor and Pablo who, without fail, emptied literally hundreds of garbage cans every week, and never complained.
I think of Donnie, Dave, Megan and I rehearsing music for a Sunday morning worship service; a rehearsal that turned into a 3 hour jam session where we sang every praise and worship song we could think of.
I think of Daniel who could make the best s’mores I ever ate, and who could toast a marshmallow until it was like candy and melted in your mouth.
I think of Meg, who every morning would meticulously pick the raisins out of the individual bowls of Raisin Bran offered at breakfast, and give them to me since I loved raisins and she didn’t. She said I was the bran to her raisins. Or maybe I was the raisins to her bran. We never did figure that out.
The stories could go on and on and I would love to tell you all of them. How all of these people were Jesus to me this summer. How God used each and every one to impact my life, and to impact the lives of the Questers. How each of them grew; how I grew because of the lessons they taught me. I can truly say that this year’s staff was different. It was special. It was the church, for the church really is the people.
Just like the childhood song says, “The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is the people.” That couldn’t be truer than at Doe River Gorge. The people are not only the church, they make our church what it is. In the words of my friend Billy, “You are Jesus to me.” We are Jesus to each other, which is how it should be.
I think of Renee, who at the very beginning of the summer didn’t understand why we were always talking about love and hugs and “mushy stuff.” Having grown up without a strong family support system, she said she couldn’t identify with this love we all claimed and she certainly couldn’t identify with hugs. During staff training she would politely stand still while you hugged her, but let it be known that she was not a “touchy-feely person.” A hug that went on too long (approximately 3 seconds) was subject to polite recoil, and a quick, “Okay, that’s enough.” But Renee knew this about herself, and knew that this couldn’t be right. She shared one day that she wanted to be able to give people hugs and be able to say “I love you,” and mean it. She inherently knew that there was more than the social coolness she had been raised with, and she wanted it.
Over the summer—over 12 hard weeks of work where you have no choice but to be in each other’s business 24-7—Renee slowly warmed to love and hugs. I remember a day that had been particularly hard for her (I don’t remember the reasons why now) but at the end of a good conversation about it I asked if there was anything more I could do. Swallowing tears she asked, “Can I have a hug?” Ah, breakthrough! I joyfully gave her one, for as long as she would allow. By the end of the summer, hugs were a special part of her greeting. She looked me in the eye on the last day of camp and told me she loved me. It meant more than I could ever say.
I think of “Karen”. Karen was a camper (what DRG calls “Questers”) during the last week of camp. Without fail, every year, week 10—the last week—brings the hardest, most challenging group of Questers. Typically, the Quester population for week 10 is comprised of 1) home schooled children, 2) resident students from Mountain Mission School in Grundy, VA, and 3) the youth group called One7 from Charlotte, NC. The home schooled children are, of course, just like our “bell curve” Questers, but the groups from Mountain Mission and One7 are anything but. Both groups are largely comprised of illegal aliens or the children of illegal aliens; refugees and immigrants from places such the Sudan, Rwanda, Ethiopia and Kenya; refugees of the Montagnard (Degar) indigenous group of Vietnam, ostracized in part due to their aiding American forces during the Vietnam War and still under heavy persecution from the Vietnamese majority. The children in these groups are not only poor—most came literally with just the shirts on their backs, some are orphans, many live in single parent homes, many never know where their next meal is coming from, to several English is still a broken foreign language; and those are just the physical needs. The spiritual hunger runs much deeper. What these children know of Christ is what they have been taught since their time in the States. Religious beliefs are as varied as their backgrounds: Muslim, forms of Catholicism, traditional beliefs, confusion is rampant and most believe they have no use for any god. Karen was no exception.
A student at Mountain Mission School, Karen had lived in the States for several years after fleeing from her home in the war-torn Sudan. She told her counselor that she had no use for our God, didn’t want to be at the Gorge, and only came because her friends did and her school made her. Unsurprisingly, after living in such as place as the Sudan, Karen suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which most commonly manifested itself in screaming fits. As a staff, we were warned of this, usually brought on by unfamiliar situations where Karen was surrounded by unfamiliar people. Fortunately, she came with a group of her friends who were no strangers to her fits and who were prepared for them if they should happen. It was us who were unprepared. I’ll never know what brought it on, but one day towards the end of lunch, without warning, Karen collapsed on the ground writhing in invisible pain, screaming and gasping for air. My first aid training told me it was some kind of severe seizure, but I had seen seizures before, and this was different. This was terror. Tears ran down her cheeks as we tried to restrain her; someone ran for the medical staff while another ran for her friends. All of them quickly came, speaking comforting words—such as we could manage—and calling her name, telling her everything was alright; that she was safe. Once the fit passed, Karen lay on the floor getting her bearings. He friends gathered around her trying to cheer her; the medical staff did a quick exam to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself. I looked at my friend Megan and both of us could only think of one question: “What kind of hell was that?” I couldn’t imagine any situation in my life that would cause me to relive such a horrid moment with such terrifying clarity as to literally fear for my life. Suddenly, her words about God made sense, too. Who would have a use for a God that allowed such things to happen?
As is so often the case, even when we have no use for God, He has a use for us. Her counselor told us at the end of the week that at the last worship service of the week—and of the summer—something changed in Karen. I’m sure He was working all week long in her, but suddenly she said, “I want to know Christ.” She said she could feel God tugging at her heart, and that she knew He was the only solution; she finally wanted to know Him. She left the Gorge a believer, aware that her PTSD would not “magically” clear up or get better—it might even get worse—but empowered and free to know the Truth of who could help her handle it.
I think of the young Quester who came week one, who’s name I never even got the opportunity to know, but who I taught to tie her shoes. Out at the Challenge Course, she had a pair of loosely tied “skater shoes” that I asked her to tie tighter so they wouldn’t come off her feet. She refused, so I jokingly asked, “What? Don’t you know how to tie your shoes?” She looked me straight in the face and said, “No. No one ever taught me.” I knew she wasn’t joking by the look in her eye, so I sat her down on a nearby log and taught her to tie her shoes.
I think of the time that the girl half of our leadership team decided to make the boy half of the leadership team dinner. They were all so impressed and thankful for a home cooked meal, you would have thought they all won the lottery. It was a lesson in how the little things really mean a lot.
I think of Jesse, in his black fedora with his guitar in hand singing his heart out for whoever would listen.
I think of Kevin and Trish and their nice cameras who take amazing pictures that really capture the heart and soul of their subjects.
I think of Ben, Taylor and Pablo who, without fail, emptied literally hundreds of garbage cans every week, and never complained.
I think of Donnie, Dave, Megan and I rehearsing music for a Sunday morning worship service; a rehearsal that turned into a 3 hour jam session where we sang every praise and worship song we could think of.
I think of Daniel who could make the best s’mores I ever ate, and who could toast a marshmallow until it was like candy and melted in your mouth.
I think of Meg, who every morning would meticulously pick the raisins out of the individual bowls of Raisin Bran offered at breakfast, and give them to me since I loved raisins and she didn’t. She said I was the bran to her raisins. Or maybe I was the raisins to her bran. We never did figure that out.
The stories could go on and on and I would love to tell you all of them. How all of these people were Jesus to me this summer. How God used each and every one to impact my life, and to impact the lives of the Questers. How each of them grew; how I grew because of the lessons they taught me. I can truly say that this year’s staff was different. It was special. It was the church, for the church really is the people.
