“How hard can it be,” is a phrase that has allowed me to stay married, to have kids, to buy rental property, to homeschool, to direct a play, to travel in China, and last week it allowed me to serve as the camp chaplain at a camp for kids in foster care.
How hard can it be?
It got hard when all 52 of them stepped off the bus. They were not the mini-thugs I was expecting. Some of them were little tiny people just six or seven years old. Some were tiny because of their age or genetics, but others were tiny because there hasn’t been enough food in their lives to cause them to grow properly. I cried all the way back to the staff lodge thinking, “This could be a long week.”
How hard can it be?
It got hard when at the first night’s chapel I said in my Sunday School teacher’s voice, “All right, boys and girls. Let’s sit quietly in our chairs, hands in our laps and give rapt attention to the wonderful lesson Bible Brenda has prepared for this evening.”
Bwaaaa haaaa haaa haaaa.
After 10 minutes I walked up to the camp director and asked, “Shall I keep talking over them or shall we wrap it up?”
She said, “Wrap it up.”
I’ve never had to simply end a Bible lesson before. Ouch.
Camp counselors were spared the trial of bedtime and the staff stepped in.
All we had to do was convince 22 girls to stop talking, put their heads on their pillows, close their eyes and go to sleep. How hard could that be?
One little one almost made it to sunrise. It was her first time at camp. She wasn’t tired. Tomorrow was her birthday. She was thirsty. She wanted to sing. She heard a noise. She had to go potty (again). She wanted to talk. She had an itch. She missed her foster mom. …
How hard can it be?
Armed with the experience of the first chapel, I came prepared the next day and lowered the “unmitigated disaster rating” from a 10 to about a seven.
(I’ve read that some children learn through moving. I pray this is true.)
At camp the kids swam, fished, carved wood, made art, sang songs, shot arrows and paddled canoes. There was no yelling, no hitting, no scolding, no caseworkers, no court, no supervised visits. There was only fun.
And then it was time to return home. Many of the kids hopped on the bus, waved goodbye and looked forward to seeing their caregivers.
But one 12-year-old boy hugged his counselor and sobbed, “Please can’t we stay here? Please? Please? I don’t want to go back. This is the only place I want to be.”
But just like the rest of us, he had to get on the bus and go back to his everyday life.
How hard could it be?