It can smell your fear. That’s what I’ve learned about summer time. As a camp director, summer looms over
the rest of my year and threatens to fill every season with either the malaise
of fearful anticipation, or the relief of yet another narrow escape. It’s like a gorilla in a room full of
monkeys. There are some basic
similarities between all seasons as a camp director, but instead of the
playfulness of fall, winter, and spring, summer brings a dangerous propensity
to pound things into a pulp, or throw them against a wall.
Summer is terrifying.
Our camp is a relatively small, simple operation and yet in June we
suddenly grow from a staff of 6 to a staff of 45. In the space of a single property we operate a commercial
kitchen, a white-water rafting outfitter, a mentoring ministry, a paintball
course, two waterfronts, a ski boat, 28 buildings, and 7000 acres of trails,
fields, and headaches. Between now
and September 1st, we will host 1500 guests at our camp, and we’ll
guide 2500 customers in white water rafts.
As a romantic teenager I dreamed of the day I would proudly
take the reigns of a camp ministry and calmly steer it to prosperity with the
confidence and self-assuredness of the Marlboro man. Years later, when I actually took those reigns, I realized
that I was more likely to steer this bronco from the perspective of a rodeo
clown. I traded in my dignity for
a pair of floppy shoes and a bag of ice strapped to my rump.
