Slow to Change....

Lately I have been thinking more about childhood memories. I guess it's because I see our children transforming into teenagers right before my eyes and wonder where the time has gone. One of Tony's favorite childhood memories was making apple butter in a giant copper kettle with his family. This year we decided to introduce that tradition to DCC and pulled the kettle out of storage for the 2012 Annual Meeting.

Knowing the importance of the kettle in Tony's family history, it got me thinking more about my own childhood. When I was growing up we had no sidewalks and one of the first things Shanti became aware of upon our move to Oregon was the absence of a smooth flat surface for riding her bike. When she first started speaking English she referred to the old sidewalk in front of our 100 year old home in goshen as "bumpy town" and the newly paved alley behind us as "smooth town." She preferred smooth town for practicing her cycling skills.

 As a kid, I would spend about a week each summer at my grandmother's house. She lived in town and there were plenty of sidewalks on which a child could ride. My favorite route was to ride circles around the Sheridan Mennonite Church which was right next to her home. For what seemed to be hours, I would ride around and around the building and think about things. I maintained a curious fascination with that building for much of my childhood, and to some extent, I probably still do.  There was something almost forbidden about the church and while I remember feeling warmly welcomed there, I was also aware that I didn't quite fit in. Yet I fondly remember Vacation Bible School in the basement; the comforting smells of chicken noodle casseroles wafting through the sanctuary and thinking how cool it felt to sit up in the balcony. I was back in that church recently.  Not much has changed in the past 30 years.  I found myself smiling when I found the women's restroom to still be the same shade of pink! My hunch is that the vintage serving trays used for fellowship meals are likely the same ones that were used at my parents' wedding.

 Last week a parent sent an email describing the eager anticipation that her children were feeling about DCC's upcoming Annual Meeting.  I posted her comment on facebook and within minutes Cara Ediger responded that her childhood experience had been the same; that she could hardly wait to go to DCC with her family for Annual Meeting.

I have also witnessed folks walk into the lodge, breathe deeply and declare, "Ahhh, it still smells the same!" And I imagine that for people visiting DCC for the first time in a while, there is comfort in seeing those bold orange tables still lined neatly in rows.  Yes, some things at camp have been upgraded, but much is slow to change. The smells of freshly baked bread, the crackle of a cozy fire, the breath-taking feeling of dipping your toes in the cold creek, the sense of community one feels worshipping around the campfire. It is difficult to not feel awed by the presence of God when you are here.  I still find myself looking up at the towering trees nearly 40 years after my first visit and the feeling is still the same...."WOW."  I am grateful for the perspective.

When I look at the faces of campers each summer, I know we have a ginormous responsibility. The childhood memories of 100s of campers are being created right in front of me. They are developing their faith journey among us. This weekend, among family and friends, will make an impact and shape not only who our children are now, but also who they will become. Like me, Drift Creek Camp will forever be part of their childhood memories. My hope is that when today's campers look back on their camp experiences, they will recall not only being welcomed, but fully loved and accepted, enveloped fully by God's grace and part of a community of believers.

So hard to let go....

This past weekend we had the pleasure of hosting a wonderful group of quilters and scrapbookers at camp. I have come to understand that the nature of being a quilter, a story keeper or an artist of any kind, is to hang on to things....you never know when you might need something or perhaps a particular scrap has the potential to become the perfect embellishment for that "someday" project. The magic of a quilt scrap is that each piece tells a story. My parents received a wedding ring quilt as a marriage gift from my grandmother. I can still hear dad telling me how Aunt Ellen wore this dress and Aunt Lois wore that dress, while dad and his brothers wore certain shirts; bits of which were sewn lovingly into the blanket. For a time I had the privilege of keeping that quilt on my bed. I recall feeling extra warm not only from its weight, but also by the stories it told.

Over the years I have become more aware that my tendency is to hang on to things, and to hang on tightly. This past year we endured the hard lessons of letting go. First it was letting go of control with the camp road being closed for construction. This was not easy. I fought and fought to come up with some brilliant alternative that would save DCC from having to lose $80,000 from the operating budget. Thankfully, we were able to shuffle things around and reduced that to about $60,000. But the gap was still wide. The loss of "control" and scary unknown, at times, made it hard to breathe.

In the end, not only did camp consituents pull through and raise the necessary funds, the closure afforded time off to spend two weeks hosting Shanti and Saroj's birth sister and her family who came to visit. The experience of connecting with people from across the planet that you don't really know, but have this insanely strong bond with, was humbling, as was the shower of support from all who love camp! So in some strange way, the closure also offered unexpected blessings.

When Tony and I bought our house built in 1901 in Goshen, it had an extra bedroom. We never had a guest room growing up and so that was a luxury I couldn't wait to plan for.  I longed for family and friends to come from Oregon to visit so preparing a guest room quickly became my priority.

It started with a lovely red and white quilt that I picked up at an antique auction. From there, things blossomed. We found an old metal bed at a garage sale and a dresser at a thrift shop and I quickly painted all that I could red. Soon I added a red checked border around the room that complimented the quilt's Irish Chain pattern. I sewed valences from old pillow cases with petite red and white buttons and lettered inspirational quotes on the shades so that guests would have a fun surprise when they retired. A vintage typewriter sat on the desk while old black and white photographs adorned the walls.

Our work at the Brew allowed us to open our home to traveling musicians who performed at our little coffee shop on Main Street. It didn't take long for customers to hear about the red and white room and they wanted to contribute! Soon Barb's red and white crochet work was added to the dresser, Eric's grandmother's lamp was added and my sister sent a tiny red dress to hang on the wall. The room became a life-size collage, an expression of hospitality and what I wanted our home to be.

I grew up in Oregon and have always loved it. But I loved Goshen too. There are different things in each place that I love, but I love them both, differently. When we moved back to Oregon, it was not without tears and an awful lot of letting go. But we decided to pack up most of what we could from our red and white room so that we could rebuild it on the west coast.

That has not yet happened. For the past five years much of our stuff, and certainly all of the "extras" remain in storage. It is shockingly difficult to live without your stuff! It's hard to have creative urges but no have access to your tools to see that inspiration come to life.

Last fall we headed to the barn at my parents' where they are generously letting us store way too much stuff! We were looking for some Christmas decorations that we had stashed in a closed rubber bin. While we looked, we discovered that one of the bins had been disturbed and had cracked open just enough for a family of mice to move in.

Of course they had chosen my most beloved bin. they made their home right inside the red and white quilt. They shredded the pillow made from a different salvaged quilt and destroyed anything made of cloth, including Barb's runner. It was all in ruin. And if the torn shreds of memories and fabric were not enough, those little buggers left everything tainted with an almost unbearable stench!

I crumpled to the floor. I couldn't have imagined the grief. It came pouring out.....anger, loss, frustration, and unbelievable sadness. I knew these items were just things, but with deep attachments. At the time, the loss of a broken dream and the connection to what had been our home, was overwhelming.

The spring of tears was unexpected and I see now that my sobbing frightened my children. Later I sent an email to a dear friend in Goshen who had helped paint the room. The tears came as I typed. Saroj walked in and said, "Mom, are you STILL crying? Hasn't it been at least an HOUR?" And, as I shared this story, a year later, I found the tears creeping in again.

I have to wonder why it is so hard to let go when most of us have far more than we need. I have plenty of other blankets and even a quilt or two....but the belongings of "the red and white room" were more than just things, and I was not ready to let go, to be emptied of my own plans.

I suppose that has been the lesson all along. A huge part of my job at camp is to plan. To track details and prepare for what's next. But with the summer road closure, there was a letting go. I have now had to let go of the idea of rebuilding our guest room...But I suppose the good news is that now there is the opportunity of a fresh start and I'll just have to wait patiently to see what is in store and know that for me, and for guests down the road, it will be enough.