It didn’t take long. I am homesick.
I am not the one in the mountains, at church camp. But it isn’t home without Aidan around. It has only been a few hours and the marked quietness is telling—she is a huge contributor to the noise and bustle of our house.
I am sure she is having the time of her life. Some of my happiest memories from childhood were made at church camp—singing the wacky songs, eating the food in the mess hall, making new friends, cleaning the cabin each morning for inspection, but most of all walking to Vespers in the dark.
Under the starlit sky we walked on a rocky trail each night, dozens of flashlights bouncing and occasionally scouring the woods for watching animal eyes. We walked for a long time until we reached an old chapel in the middle of the forest. Inside, lit by candles, we would sing the non-wacky songs of praise and worship. All were haunting, in the minor key, and lifted me up into a place of surrender. That is what I went to church camp for—to experience nature and creation and draw closer to God.
