He stood there with his feet in the dead leaves and the mossy green undergrowth, a board etched with the words “Liz’s Landing” hanging quietly above his head. Mousy-haired and boney as only an 11-year-old can be, he stood before an audience of his fellow campers and prepared to tell a story. It was a Native American tale taught to him by his Grandfather – a story about how the deer got his antlers. As I stood there and listened to him proudly share his story and fumble over Cherokee names, I couldn’t help but think about how wonderfully he fit into the world that is camp.
At Camp AJ, we are story tellers. We tell bedtime stories. Just the week before, I had told my own Native American tale to a room full of girls longing for a story to settle the mind for sleep. As I spun my tale during early duty (putting the kids to bed – a duty that I usually dread – but on this night, enjoyed), I wove in and out of rows of bunk beds full of girls with heads on pillows and propped on chins. We tell stories around campfires. Scary tales to accompany s’mores that three girls eagerly recap for me the next day as we twist and swing on chains and rubber, our feet grazing the mulch. There are stories about Hobo Stu, the hobo named Stuart who originated the famous hobo stew that we eat over a campfire every year. There are stories about Victor the Cougar, a character created by an imaginative young man in the Middles group one year. A character who has not only a story, but also a song. We tell stories about camp legends. There are origin stories about how Camp Andrew Jackson came to be and got its name. There are stories about Big Mama, the really big turtle who lives under the dock in the lake. She is seldom seen, but often talked about. Yes. Stories are important at Camp AJ, and in more ways than one. I was reading a story myself on my break one day – a YA novel pilfered from the bookshelf in the Older group's dorm – when I came across this:
“For hours we went on like that, pouring out the words, and at one point I wondered how much these strangers cared about what we were saying, or if they cared at all, and why we felt such an urgent need to tell them our story, and why they told us theirs.” – From The Wanderer by Sharon Creech
And I had to stop and read it over again. Because it had a wonderful ring of truth to it. And was so applicable to camp. Because at camp, we don’t just tell stories; we also listen to stories. Because, for some reason, we humans do need other people to know our story. And not just know our story – but genuinely care about our story. And some of the kids who come to camp don’t have that on a regular basis.
At camp, everyone’s story is important and can have a happy ending. It doesn’t matter if your parents are struggling or if you’re barely scraping by in all your classes at school or if you have no friends or if you’re in your fourth foster home. At camp, one of our greatest tasks is to let kids know that their stories are important and they have the power to steer them in the right direction, whether they feel that way or not. Stories are funny things. We like for them to have a good plot, a captivating setting, worthwhile characters, and an interesting conflict. And strangely enough, we humans are most moved by stories of conflict. It is those stories, the stories where people go through a terrible storm or are afflicted with a life-changing disease or suffer heartbreaking loss, that capture us and teach us the most. A lot of the kids who come to camp have far too much conflict in their stories already. There is nothing more that we long for than to take away some of that conflict and repair some of that brokenness. But we know that, most of the time, that isn’t in our power.
There is beauty that can be pulled out of brokenness. But it is terribly, painfully hard. It’s the kind of beauty, that, if given the choice, you’d maybe rather not have, but that, once you do have it, you are grateful for. Here at camp, we can’t wipe out the brokenness. But we can show kids a glimpse of the love that can help to heal it and the beauty that can be pulled out of it. Here at Camp AJ, we like to tell stories. But, more importantly, we like to listen to the kids’ stories. Because we know how important they are. And how beautiful they could become.
Elizabeth is a long-term volunteer serving in the Home Repair program and living in the Jackson County community. In the past Elizabeth has also served with CAP as a volunteer in the S.P.A.R.K. after school program and as a camp counselor at Camp Andrew Jackson. Opinions expressed in volunteer blogs are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of CAP or the Volunteer Program.
