June 18: Sleeping Bag, Picking Up Daughter, Bible Camp

I made a sandwich, filled a canteen, and slipped a palm-sized flashlight into my pocket.  Then all I had to do was grab a thin foam pad and my sleeping bag, walk down the road, over the eroded clay hill where the mantis laid her eggs, along the creek downstream to the motorbike woods, and through the woods' bike trail to the dam.

Dillard is going camping.  She's got everything she needs to spend a night in the wild--water, sleeping bag and mat, flashlight.  In her list of camping necessities, she doesn't mention Cheetos or Hershey bars or even beef jerky.  Just water.  Obviously, Dillard's idea of roughing it is very different from my idea of roughing it.  My idea of rustic camping is staying at a hotel without room service.

I mention these facts because, in a few hours, I will be picking my daughter up from Bible camp.  She has been there almost a full week.  The accommodations at this camp are not quite as bare bones as Dillard's.  There are cabins and flush toilets and showers.  Oh, and a chapel for worship.  It's a great place in the middle of the woods, right by a beautiful little lake.

I'm not sure which daughter I will be picking up:  the moody, tired teenager or the funny, happy-go-lucky girl who sings along with the radio.  I'm betting on the former, simply because she has probably not had a whole lot of sleep these last six days.  Usually, the conversation when I pick her up from Bible camp goes something like this:

Me:  So how was your week?

Her:  Fine.

Me:  Make any new friends?

Her:  (incomprehensible mumble)

Me:  What?

Her:  NO!!  GOD!!

Me:  Did you go swimming?

Her:  No.

Me:  Why not?

Her:  (incomprehensible mumble)

Me:  What?

Her:  Could you just please NOT?!!!

You get the idea.  After spending a week with her friends, reading the Bible, going to worship, inviting Jesus into her life, my daughter will be tired, in need of a shower, and demonically possessed.

Saint Marty can't wait to see her.