Revenge of Camp Stories: Friday, July 23.

At least once a night here I get up, walk to the bathhouse, admire the moonlit campground, and promptly return to bed and sleep.  This night, though, my awakeitude is prolonged by the progress of dinner (cheap mini oven pizza) through my digestive tract.  I remember this meal having similar effects in previous years; those things seem to have just the wrong combination of ingredients for me.  The one I ate Sunday night seemed to cause me little trouble (although in retrospect it may well have been related to Monday morning's extreme grogginess), but this one causes acute discomfort.  I toss, turn, and vow to fast from wheat today to give my gut a rest.

(My mom has developed a severe, and I mean really severe, reaction to gluten. While I don't currently share this predicament, I've noticed I'm generally more alert and energetic when I don't eat wheat, which indicates that it does tax my digestive system to some degree.  I'll still eat it when someone else is cooking, but in my own home I'm basically wheat-free. At camp, obviously, I'm not.)

Easier said than done.  I must pass up most of breakfast, but at least there are scrambled eggs.  Lunch is spaghetti, breadsticks, and cookies: wheaty wheat with a side of wheat.  I take a helping of cooked peas and, at one cook's laughing suggestion, top them with parmesan.  It's actually not bad.  I'm grateful for the salad bar, which is uninspiring but consistent, and for my snack stash in the staff fridge.  Conveniently, my appetite still hasn't fully returned, so I top it off with a kid-sized milk carton and carry on.

Classes continue to go well.  My Bible students make me laugh a lot, and they're eager to talk about nearly any topic you put in front of them.  In World Travel class today, guest speaker Amanda talks about her travels in Costa Rica; I talk about packing, a topic near and dear to my heart, and show-and-tell some of my favorite travel gadgets (travel pillow, backpacker's towel, compression bag).

Before lunch, a counselor approaches me to share her concern for a camper who is leaving tomorrow.  (Most campers stay for both weeks of the session; a handful are leaving at the end of the week, and we expect a few more to arrive.)  The girl in question has a strong and well-educated Catholic background, and has stood alone on some controversial issues discussed in this counselor's class.  The counselor is concerned about the girl leaving camp with unanswered questions, which appears to me to be the best possible outcome from a first encounter with a church that's very different from your own.  I try to ask leading questions, rather than just point out what I see as dangerous flaws in her reasoning.  She says she wants the camper to "have her own faith" (as distinct from her Catholic parents'), but clearly means she wants the camper to have a faith that looks a lot like her own.  She mentions trying to get this camper to understand that salvation doesn't happen without good works, a theologically sticky standpoint.  And she is disappointed in how "progressive" her students are, saying that they refuse to pass judgment on others' moral choices.  Hmm.

I bite my tongue a lot, hear her out, and reassure her that the camper is in God's hands.  I'm grateful she's willing to share this, but it's a frustrating conversation for me because it underlines the doctrinal divide between my beliefs and those of so many here.  I grew up in the Church of Christ, the denomination sponsoring this camp, but several years ago I left it to attend a community church, finding a more ecumenical and, yes, more progressive approach to be better aligned with my understanding of God's grace.  Key members of the staff are aware of my membership, so I'm not really sneaking in undercover here, but I have to wonder: if this counselor knew what I believe, would she even want me here?  Do I even belong here anymore?

It's a painful question, but the fact is, there's a lot being taught here that I just can't agree with.  I feel cowardly sitting by and doing nothing to counteract it.  But I don't know how, or what to say.  How am I to speak up to disagree here, in this denomination that taught me my place in the church is to be silent (and if I have a problem, I should ask my husband about it)?  I don't even know whether those whose words I've been troubled by are really speaking for everyone.  I know I haven't heard many voices to the contrary this year (some who might have provided balance are absent, and others I just haven't heard much from, so far).  I don't think the bias has always been this extreme, but I can't honestly tell how much of the mismatch I'm feeling is because camp has changed, and how much is because I have.

Yet these people are truly loving, truly understand what it is to serve, and I am called to love and serve them, the body of Christ, warts and all.  But I don't want to be at cross purposes with them.  Do I belong elsewhere?  Or are these just differences of opinion I'd find in any gathering of believers?

I stew about these matters for the rest of the day, though it doesn't prevent me from thoroughly enjoying, in consecutive order: a "boat race" down the crick (boats are constructed by campers from recycled and craft materials); a lovely shower, after which I promptly get sweaty again; several games of washers; the remainder of Whompy's manuscript; and a nice catching-up chat with head teacher Shane on the hike to the campfire site known as "Serenity."  (Shane would be a good person to talk to about my questions, but I don't want to discuss them in earshot of the campers who are close on our heels, and am at this point still not even sure how best to communicate my unease.)

At Serenity (No fireflies, sorry!) we eat dinner cooked outdoors, and I decide I'm done fasting from wheat so I can eat my bratwurst on a bun. Afterward, Roger the Cowboy gives us his annual concert, standing between the campfire and the edge of the ridge, miles of treetops spread out behind him.  Roger's songs are plain, sweet, and twang-less, accompanied by acoustic guitar strummin'.  He covers songs like "Grandma's Feather Bed," "I Walk the Line," "Red River Valley" and "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys," and plays several numbers of his own.  It's a pretty low-key show, but everyone loves it.

By the time he's done, it's nearly dark and time for devo.  There's no speaker tonight either, but the contrast between last night's singing and tonight's is stunning.  Up here in the open air, we stand in a tight cluster beside, rather than around, the campfire; the energy is high and the tempo does not falter, not even three verses into good ol' number 728b.