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.

Healthcare, SCOTUS, & Playing Nice

The administration of healthcare is a nightmare of complexity in our nation.  We all should be able to agree on that, at least. It’s an issue that is easy to passionately hold forth upon when one is alone with a computer screen, but when looking into the eyes of a human being with a severe illness and dire circumstances, some of the starch tends to run out of us.  At least I hope it does.

Those of us who have passionate convictions regarding the economic and governmental principles that should govern decisions about healthcare should take care, however, in our public responses to yesterday’s SCOTUS ruling. Whatever decisions may be made regarding the future disposition of the issue of universal coverage, there will most certainly be unintended consequences, so some humility is in order from both sides.  What we post online is likely to be retweeted and reposted, shared and re-shared, because everyone is examining responses to the ruling. 

To my friends who are not believers, I say, “Be nice. Venom does not further productive debate.” For my believing friends, let us all start each discussion and debate with an admonition from Colossians 4:5-6, "Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone." (NIV) I am taking the verse somewhat out of context, I realize; however, it’s useful to remember when our conversation is taking place in an e-fishbowl, that our every interaction represents something, and Someone, greater than ourselves. After all, the future of the kingdom does not depend on US domestic policy.

And finally and purely personally, I’d like to just add that people who have never had a moment’s self-doubt scare me most of all, regardless of their political convictions. If we enact our ideal choice of legislation regarding this issue today, chances are that the greatest long-term consequences for our nation will come home to roost a generation or two after we are dead. So we’ll never really know if it was the best decision or not, will we?

Pantsuits, Jim Crow, and the Head that Wears the Crown

My father once admonished, “Be not the first by which the new is tried, nor the last to put the old aside.”  At thirteen, in 1973, I saw no wisdom in his explanation of why I could not wear pants instead of a dress to church, at a time when most things, including fashion, were rapidly changing for women. Dad was not generally one to defend tradition for tradition’s sake, but he was an elder in our conservative church.  For him, there were other considerations -- larger, institutional implications that took precedence over my desire to wear a “pantsuit” for worship.  Then came the day of the rare Alabama snowstorm.  Of course, young ladies couldn’t be expected to wear dresses to brave the elements, at some peril, to attend worship – and the taboo fell on that sparsely-attended Sunday morning.  And so change sometimes happens quickly, despite opposition. But sometimes not.

My father was the superintendent of education who implemented a desegregation plan in the Florence, Alabama, city schools. I recall seemingly endless weeks of tense phone calls and late-night meetings, after which he would come home and stay up long into the night, drinking coffee, taking more calls, smoking, and considering his response to the latest incident. He met with groups of African American parents, spoke at African American churches, pacified groups of white parents, advocated for the plan to the press and to neighborhood groups.  And there were threats.  At the instruction of the police, Dad wore a shoulder holster with a 38-caliber revolver under his suit, especially when he was in his office or a school building at night. A plastic bag in my dresser drawer contains a bullet that was fired at our house one night by some faceless racist who couldn't stand the change that was coming.

This week’s Arkansas Times cover photo is of Dr. George Benson, one of the early administrators of my alma mater, then called Harding College, with the headline “HARDING and the AMERICAN WAY – How a College President Stifled Desegregation.”  The headline, overprinted on a black-and-white image of Dr. Benson, jumped at me from a newspaper box at a Conway diner where I eat breakfast occasionally.  The article recounted a 1958 petition by students and faculty in support of integration.  The writer detailed Dr. Benson’s initial opposition to integration, using Benson's own notes to reconstruct his remarks to the student body. I was fascinated to read the signatures on the photograph of the petition; I was pleased and proud to recognize many names on it. Dr. Benson finally announced that Harding would integrate in 1963.

When my sister, a Harding student, married in 1976, two African American friends were attendants in her wedding, so it never occurred to me when I arrived in 1978 that it had not been long since the campus was integrated. There were any number of African American students, and interracial dating on campus. A few years ago, however, when my eleventh grade history students investigated positions on integration among various church denominations, we learned that the subject of race had been complex, contentious and divisive for many churches and related organizations and colleges.

Now – indulge me - back to the pants issue.  Let me be clear, the question of whether to accept women wearing pants to church was in no way substantively equivalent to the question of whether to include as equals in the pew, or the classroom, those whom God includes as equal in the kingdom. But contrast the kingdom with the visible church: administered as it is by fallen humans with preferences and prejudices and petty insecurities that inevitably we bring into the earthly institutions that align their mission with God’s.  Heaven help us.  My father’s response to the trouser question did have this in common with Dr. Benson's: he felt that while he was a watchman on the wall, change would not be sudden, lest it be seen as capricious. Small comfort that was to a black student whose identity was trivialized and marginalized by Jim Crow, but I believe Dad’s reasoning is relevant to this conversation.

I don't defend the indefensible when it comes to any stance against integration.  My students know that I see those who make racist comments, or who romanticize the Old South with its forced labor economy, as the kindred of those who would have tried to hurt my father back when he was integrating that school district so long ago. But part of the job of a history teacher is to caution students against judging figures from the past by the standards of the present.  We may read the documentary evidence, learn about their lives, and discuss them in the context of a greater stream of culture.  We must certainly at some level make moral judgments about their actions – but they were of their time and we are of ours. Each generation has enough for which to be accountable without inserting contemporary sensibilities into the mind of someone from the past.  It’s presumptuous.

“Be not the first by which the new is tried, nor the last to put the old aside,” may seem a recipe for mediocrity -- one that doesn’t appropriately value innovation and clings to tired ideas, or even wrongheaded ones.  It's an expression more rooted in practicality than moral ideals. We prefer to believe our leaders would, on moral issues, act without fear of consequence or reprisal, but the Arkansas Times article illustrated what has always been true: the very young can well afford to be the reckless idealists among us precisely because they are not yet responsible for our institutions. The world needs the passionate vision of young people because they still see the world with a clarity unobstructed by the pragmatic considerations that might lead an older, more powerful man to compromise something important. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown," or words to that effect.

One last personal story: when that same man who held me back from the precipice of "slacks" at worship was young himself and had just arrived back from the war, he became the principal at the tiny school at Williford, Arkansas.  In 1951, he scheduled an exhibition basketball game between his all-white team and an all-black team.  When word got out, he was summoned to Little Rock by the director of the somewhat formidable arbiter of student extracurriculars, the Arkansas Activities Association -- where Dad was informed that he could only play teams “who were members of the all-white AAA or an equivalent association,” and the AAA definitely did not consider the black association equivalent. Dad said he thanked the man and went back to Williford and played the team anyway.  He was young then, and didn't know all the institutional considerations that were at stake, perhaps.

Dr. Benson acted much as many other men of his time who were charged with the protection and growth of institutions both large and small, from churches to country clubs to the armed forces -- he hesitated and resisted doing what was right on this issue out of fear of unpredictable consequences to the organization. Any number of progressive reformers of our nation's government, such as FDR,  likewise did not run quickly to full integration without reservation. They considered both advantageous timing and political fallout.  History is rife with examples of overt racism on the part of twentieth century American leaders, both secular and religious, who otherwise were admirable.  It’s a fact we should neither sweep under the rug nor rationalize. It’s a great tragedy of human history that segregation was played out in our nation long after the Civil War, with the blessing of our churches, and that Jim Crow was given aid and comfort by the highest court in the land. The story of the United States has always been a tale of a circuitous journey toward the ideals of the Declaration: a collective journey toward sanctification, if you will, by a host of the fallen.  

Black Flower in the White House

Condoleezza Rice spoke at Harding University last night. It was a delightful evening for the friendly, mostly Republican crowd. She expressed  gracious appreciation to the Concert Choir's performance, offered some reflections on diplomacy and governance in the post 9/11 world, and continued with some thoughts about the future of our country. She believes that our lack of success at providing effective education for our most at-risk young people may be our greatest national security risk.  She referred to her own past as a black youngster growing up in the "most segregated city in the United States" (Birmingham), and recalled that her ancestors were considered three-fifths of a person.  She used historic touchstones throughout the presentation to put current events into perspective. She is completely aware of our challenges, yet she is optimistic about the United States of America. She was self-possessed, easy, and polished. Afterward, she took some questions.

A student asked about reports that Muammar Gaddafi had a crush on her. Although no doubt she has told the story many times before, she still seemed to have an appropriately dignified yet girlish twinkle as she recounted it.

After the dismantling of the Soviet bloc, evil dictator and sponsor of terrorism and anti-American activities Gaddafi began to realize that the world was changing, and he became interested in repairing his reputation with the West. After Libya satisfied some specific requirements, the United States granted the formerly diplomatically-isolated country a visit from Secretary Rice.

When word got out that Secretary Rice was going to Libya, she began to receive calls from foreign ministers -- sort of the international diplomacy equivalent of  "Yo, Condi, you do know he has a thing for you, don't you?" Somewhat taken aback, Secretary Rice made the planned visit, which went completely according to protocol, right up until the end, when Muammar Gaddafi made his move. Imagine...

"Madame Secretary, I have a gift for you..."

"Really, General?"

"Yes.  It is a video that I made...especially for you."

"...oh...a...video, you say?"

"Yes.  Let me play it for you..."

I can only imagine her discomfiture at having to screen a video custom-made by her evil dictator/terrorist sponsor/stalker host, however, I have no doubt she did it with poise. The video turned out to be a montage of clips of her with heads of state and foreign ministers from all over the world. The kicker, however, was the soundtrack -- a song written at Gaddafi's behest by one of the premier composers of Libya. It was entitled, "Black Flower in the White House." No joke.

Condoleezza Rice has impeccable academic credentials, an impressive resume, and as the presidential campaign continues to develop, her name is mentioned frequently regarding a future either as a vice-presidential candidate or cabinet post. What is remarkable is that after last night, I felt like perhaps she might also be a pretty good friend. Someone a woman could go to lunch with, and discuss not only her work and her family,  but perhaps have a laugh at her authoritarian dictator-stalker-guy. I really liked her.

I think Gaddafi was probably right. She totally deserved the creepy honor he tried to pay her. I say let's get the Black Flower back to the White House again. Condoleezza Rice for Secretary of Education.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly. She frequently left with a container full of one thing or another.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the song director without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service began, and the director lead Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder. It was an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Raise Your Voice

Tonight was singing night.

The first Sunday evening of every month, the assembly at my church begins with a succession of little ones each taking the podium (that is, standing on a box behind the communion table) and leading the entire congregation in a song of their choice, starting with the youngest and progressing roughly according to age. After all, Jesus said, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me," and under the "decency and order" clause, we figure height is as good an organizational tool as any. Tonight, four-year-old Reece led the charge. Usually he announces "one t'ousand fort-teen" or something similar, and launches into the melody, counting on the faithful to follow along.

During the first seconds of each song, the air is close with anticipation, as we all root silently for the kid to make the song happen. If the tiny song leader falters, some parent from a pew will seize upon a key that is singable and bear down loudly until the congregation picks it up and falls in line. Occasionally if the young song leader pitches the song too low, we rewrite the entire arrangement on the fly; the basses sing the melody and the sopranos do high harmony, so the parts all get sung. One thing about a cappella church music is that the arrangements are usually stacked with moving parts and echoes or countermelodies, and it just doesn't work unless someone gets about the business of filling in the blanks -- so we do. "No part left behind,"as it were,  to support the youngster who is up there staring down the faithful and leading the praise.

What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder?  Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews?  Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him?  Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth?  Will he recall the love in the room?  I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is.  Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.

Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person.  Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling.   It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church."  A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits.  We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way,  it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time.  That's what we call grace.