Cabin Magic

I can't tell you how many times Watia has felt like home. I feel it on the blisteringly hot hike up the hill to the girls' village after lunch, every early morning when I put my nose deep into my mug of tea and breath in the steam, every time I peel my wet bathing suit off and look at my bizarre tan lines. And of course, there are the kids. They think this is my home anyway. To them, I'm merely an extension of this place; I'm a fixture, a "for granted" piece of the puzzle, and because the puzzle is amazing, so am I.

Yesterday during our Fourth of July carnival I was painting the face of one of our extremely sassy little campers, who responded to my concern of "I hope this face paint turns out cool..." with a straight-mouthed mumble (I was painting around her lips) of: "You make everything cool." 

Yes. It feels like home. 

But that's not what I brought you here to tell you.

Tonight each cabin had "Cabin Magic". It's the one evening activity where we are truly alone with our own cabins, and it's a great chance to bond with our kids. We've had three weeks before this, and so three cabin magics. We've done a few successful rounds of "Cabin Trivia" and a near-fail spa night. 

Tonight though, we did something new. We gathered the girls in a circle on the floor of our cabin and handed them all paper and pens. I asked them to write down all their worries, fears, insecurities, doubts, negativities. I began writing on my own sheet of paper and before long it was filled with fear and worry. From: "What if IT was really my fault?" to: "Is God loving?" to: "Am I who I think I am?" and many more, some bigger, some smaller... 

Soon my page was full. It seems I have many worries, many insecurities. I suppose I don't always realize this until I sit down with a dozen 12 year olds and ask them to think about it with me. 

After a few minutes, the room was tense as we turned over our papers, our fearful scribbles hidden against the dusty concrete floors. 

"I hope you know that everything on that piece of paper is a lie," I heard myself say. I don't know where the words came from, but there was a lump in my throat as I looked around the room. Some of our campers began to cry. The room was heavy with emotions- shame, anxiety, fear. I hadn't realized how heavy this would be for me, too. I held my paper folded in half, terrified of what my campers would think of me if they knew some of what I had written on there.

We took our papers and walked down to the lake, where our program director met us with tea lights. The girls were still quiet and emotional as we sit in a circle in the boat house. We asked if anyone wanted to share any parts of their pages and several did. They varied among our kids from worries so minor and childish to some truly deep, valid fears that I certainly related to ("I'm scared people are only pretending to like me"). 

Now it was twilight and together we took our ugly, secretive, frustrating pieces of paper and made them into paper boats. Walking out onto the shaky dock we lit tiny tea lights in each paper boat and pushed them quickly out onto the water. 

Watching those 13 little paper boats that held the deepest darkness of 11 children and their counselors was one of the most calm, peaceful moments of my life. I watched my boat float farther away, bobbing and glowing and flickering beautifully out on the dark water. I knew the ugly words that covered that page were slowly melting, the ink spreading, dissolving. 

The girls were quiet the rest of the evening. We discussed a little bit about how our day had gone during vespers, but I could tell almost everyone was deep in thought about what was written on those sheets of paper. 

It amazes me the power of truth - the impact a metaphor can have - the reality that can be changed by an image or a thought. 

Our lives can be controlled by outlandish fears and dark worries... But just as much a paper boat can bring solace and comfort to a soul.