The Camp Tahkodah Oasis

Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord... He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit.                                                                                 Jeremiah 17:7-8

Tonight I'm cleaning the dust of -- not Canaan's Land (see March 21 post "The American Taliban Prequel") -- but Camp Tahkodah -- off my feet.  This afternoon Dan and I made the mid-session  pilgrimage from our new home in Searcy north to visit the banks of Salado Creek near Floral, Arkansas.  Since our oldest daughter was in third grade, we have brought one or both of our girls to Floral each summer to spend a week or two at their happy place, owned by Harding University.


We've come a long way from that inaugural year, when I took a month to pack Claire and paid too much for cute custom camp labels from a "Going to Camp?" website, which preyed on the separation anxiety of mothers.  Now they pack themselves in about an hour, and I just throw a Sharpie in their bedroom door and remind them they have a better chance of returning with possessions people can identify;  we have to decide each year whether we actually want all those items back anyway.  Camp Tahkodah dirt is a tenacious combination of sand and construction adhesive.  Whether it is embedded in the sole of a pair of Chacos or in the seat of basketball shorts, attempting to remove it gives pause.  We do a cost-benefit analysis, and sometimes the camp dirt wins and we pitch the item, a sacrifice to the Spirit of Tahkodah.


This year, the oldest has graduated to assistant counselor, which is a fancy title for someone who is allowed to wash lots of dishes and do other menial chores for the privilege of spending a little more time there.  She is also a lifeguard, a credential she sought expressly because she wanted a little edge on getting hired.  Our youngest, age 16,  is now in the senior girls cabin, and the idea that she might not return next summer is exquisitely disconcerting when she allows herself to think about it -- so she doesn't.


When we packed up our things to move to Searcy recently, we realized the girls had accumulated a handful of Bibles engraved with "Camp Tahkodah" and signed by former director Ross Cochran, souvenirs of the Bible Bee.  Although we are not especially athletic, our family tends to do well in competitive question-answering, and our children have won a handful of times over the years.  Occasionally we've lamented that we would have traded a ready recollection of the names of the twelve tribes of Israel for a decent jump shot, but it is what it is.  God gives us each our gifts and thank heaven there's a place in the Kingdom, and at camp,  for the less coordinated.


I realized today as I stood under the pines amid a circle of log cabins, with laundry neatly hung on a clothesline beside each, that there are people from Harding who have been ministering to my grimy children in this place for nine years now.  They prayed for them before they ever arrived, cooked for them, administered first aid to them, taught them, regaled them with ridiculous songs, hiked with them, rode horses with them, canoed with them, looked out for their safety, exhorted them to good hygiene and entreated them to more effective cabin cleanup, encouraged them in competitive activities, led praise and worship for them all, and called them toward stronger relationships and to a more authentic faith. When Claire arrived at college, a Tahkodah staffer welcomed her into her home for a weekly small group study, for which Dan and I have been most thankful.  Relationships forged here as the staff invests in the lives of campers from many states will have ripples into the future of each of these sweaty young humans.

We were pleased to note as we arrived at camp last weekend that Salado Creek was still running, although many ponds and creeks in Arkansas are dry.  I was especially thankful today that, in the midst of a miserable and devastating drought, Camp Tahkodah has seen some rain, cloud cover, and merciful relief from the heat, every day this session.  But I also know that regardless of the weather, at least for my girls, Tahkodah has always been an oasis.

Here's a link to a video about her Tahkodah experience posted online by a camper last year  It gives you some idea of her feelings about camp.  Copy and past to play:  http://vimeo.com/26932911

Finally: A Blog About Moving, and About Moving On

As many of you know, I moved last week, and I have not blogged about it yet. Although a great opportunity for our entire family, the move required considerable mental adjustment for me. I normally blog about current events or those far removed in time, and these events are still unfolding.

The move meant leaving our idyllic retreat on Round Mountain, where the change of seasons and the change of weather were a delight of God's creation played out like cinema through the rear windows of our ridgetop home. It meant leaving the house we had built so carefully, with outlets in bizarre locations for our convenience -- and my roomy kitchen island that was, as Dan put it, actually more like a subcontinent -- perfect for feeding hordes of kids. We built it with everything the color of nature; the "color of dirt" philosophy suited us;  it was a casual, comfortable house.


It meant leaving our safe room, into which we had retreated last year after the tornado struck neighboring Vilonia, along with friends who became our housemates when the storm damaged their home. We all watched another storm approach from the dinner table that night. As the sky darkened and the wind picked up, their fearful eyes darted again and again to that view, until finally the sirens sounded and we all headed for shelter.  I was thankful to be able to share our "safe place" with them that night.

The move meant leaving the upstairs bonus room that been the "storm home" not only for that family, but for two others at various times, who were refugees from the kind of disaster that rips not houses, but lives apart.  We had more house than we could use, and they were lovely friends and guests.  I still recall, being less than a great cook, the night we received one such guest.  I felt like the shepherd boy from the poem about the manger in Bethlehem. "What can I give Him, poor as I am?"  No home baked comfort food at my house.  We broke out a can of chocolate icing and some spoons, sat at the kitchen table, and commiserated on the sorry state of things.  It is a nice memory.  The day he left our home, he left a can of icing on the subcontinent.

The move meant leaving the world's longest back porch, where, once or twice a year, my husband would convene until the wee hours with a few kindred males, to ceremonially strike a blow for Freedom From Being Told What To Do by Women while they discussed topics men talk about when women are not present. I would lie in bed and listen to the deep droning of their conversation, not really wanting to know its substance, but rather glad that my back porch could provide moonlight sanctuary for some very sweet men who needed to console one another without counsel from those of us with no y-chromosome.


Our change took me away from Conway Christian School. When we enrolled Emma at CCS in third grade, I did an unexpected but enjoyable "permanent substitute" teaching stint for the school. Administration and faculty encouraged me to complete my non-traditional licensure, and supported me from those early first days -- when no doubt I was more a poser than a professional -- through the seasoning of my methods and talents over seven years, transitioning me into a career I came to love at a place that consistently called students to critically seek a Godly perspective in every classroom endeavor. For the insight, encouragement, and call to excellence for me and my children, I will always be thankful.

The move meant leaving our church home since 1989.  They welcomed us as young people, mourned with us when we could not conceive a child, and wept twice when we miscarried. They rejoiced with us at the birth of Claire, and two years later, they celebrated again, as we were shocked to discover God was blessing us with twins. They fed our family when I was on bed rest, visited me and kept me company and regaled me with laughter in my confinement. When our pregnancy became extremely complicated, our church family kept vigil at St. Vincent when, after some days, we finally delivered Emma and Sarah at 30 weeks. Emma was to come home with us after ten weeks in the NICU. Sarah, however, would be buried at our family cemetery at the foot of Magazine Mountain, and our church family would surround us with loving arms and support us all the way to recovery. Over the years, the old ladies pinched our babies' cheeks and beat on their fat thighs.  Many taught our girls, encouraged them, supported them in their activities and their relationship with the Lord.  Our siblings and both sets of parents worship there still; although we are gone, we leave pieces of ourselves behind.

I make all these observations to say that, sitting here in my new house in Searcy, wondering what the Lord has in store for us, it occurs that the best memories I have of that house, and of my school, and of my church, all have to do with the idea of shelter.  Shelter from weather, from the storms of broken hearts, from the solitary devastation of loss, shelter for talents and children to grow.  And of one thing I'm certain:  shelter for God's people is not about a safe room built with hands.  It's something people build with their hearts.  And the Summers family can do that anywhere.