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Like most children, I never went to church gladly. While you could say that two of my hobbies during my childhood were sitting still and being quiet, I found it impossible to do either once I was in the confines of a House of God. My mother still recalls with embarrassment the times she would take me to morning services, only to have me shout repeatedly and at the top of my lungs: “I don’t like this! I don’t like this!” Not much had changed by the time I reached eighth grade, except that I no longer verbalized my discomfort. Rather than whine about boredom, I now used the pastor’s sermons as opportunities to indulge in fantasies which, based on the church’s teachings, would get me condemned to Hell immediately if I acted on them.
When I wasn’t taking mind-trips to the land that dare not speak its name, I was mournfully pondering the fact that now, as a 14-year-old, I was being forced to undergo the torturous process known as Confirmation. As a result, I was required to come to church not only on Sunday mornings, but for two hours each Wednesday night, as well. While designed as an opportunity for youths such as myself to better understand what our church was all about, and thus come of age spiritually, I saw it as more proof that God was going out of His way to make my life a Hell on Earth.
For starters, after the Confirmation class’ opening hour of Bible study, we were segregated by both sex and grade for private instruction. While I was on limited speaking terms with some of the girls my age, the only role I played among the boys was that of human punching bag. Coupled with this, Wednesday tended to be the biggest homework night of the week, so by the time I got home at about nine, I had only an hour to do everything. (Why didn’t I do it when I got home from school, you ask? You shut up.) And – possibly worst of all – while I was busy trying to fake an interest in things like Zaccheus, the Sacrements, or manna, the rest of the nation was able to stay home and watch The Drew Carey Show.
But this was not all. Rather than just steal two hours of my Wednesdays away from me, the church’s Confirmation program promised to sink its talons into my summer vacation, as well. One of its main requirements was that each student spend at least one week of their summer at a church-sanctioned camp. It was a rule that seemed murky at best, as paying to attend said camp was also a requirement. But, because attendance was mandatory, logical arguments would not get me out of it. No camp, no Confirmation. It was as simple as that. Flimsy as they may have been, the rules were law, although I remember thinking at the time that another set of (much more important) church rules had no mention of camp in them. At least they didn’t in that Charlton Heston movie.
Anyway, it was decided that I would attend a camp that doubled as a horse ranch. We always had at least one horse when I was growing up, so the surroundings weren’t as foreign to me as they may have been to other campers. But it still seemed an odd choice. Although I was able to ride, I was never overly fond of it. I was always more interested in things like counting and shelving my many books, reading about and watching old movies, and listening to old music. While I didn’t grasp it at the time, my parents’ intentions in sending me to this camp/ranch may have been an unconscious desire on their parts to try and toughen me up. I don’t really blame them. What else can you do with a 14-year-old boy whose favorite singer is Billie Holiday? And so, toward the end of August, I was driven, along with my older brother, to the camp, which was located in the north-central part of South Dakota. For those who’ve never been there – and you haven’t – it is a land as flat and dry as a Triscuit, hotter (in August, anyway) than a cramped auditorium, and about as densely-populated as a theater showing a Paris Hilton movie. As my parents drove away, I hoped I would be able to write this wasted week off as a good learning experience, and luckily, I was. While I’m still not a proponent of the enforced-fun factor a summer camp exemplifies, I have realized there are several lessons that can be learned from attending one.
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Lesson one tomorrow.
- TJG
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