I was a little nostalgic as I raced through the dining hall. Teen-age girl staff members were shouting at the top of their lungs from the kitchen.
"Last call for dish pit!" a cheerful voice yelled out.
The dining hall staff scrambled to find the last of the pots and pans, clanging big metal containers into the deep sink. The wash girls looked comical, wearing aprons and rubber gloves that reached their upper arms. Everyone was working. Most of them were singing along with a praise CD that was playing in a boom box precariously perched on top of a shelf. They, and I, had just cleaned up after over a hundred hungry campers, families, and adult staff. Peas were scraped off the floor, leftovers were deposited into the 'pig bucket', hundreds of plates, utensils and cooking pans were washed, dried and put away. This work was repeated three times a day. The median age of these staff girls was 16 years old.
I couldn't help it. My eyes grew damp as I listened to their voices lifted in song as they swirled around me, eyeballing the waterfront and the promise of a few hours to bask in the sun. This would be the last time I would serve in the dining hall. It was time for me to pack up the car. Life would be different when I returned home to the 'real world'. In the real world, there would be discord and complaining. That would be even before I left for work in the morning! I yearned to live in a world where each day was spent with others who lifted praises to God, even in the messiness and long, tedious hours of life.
I thought back to the day in 1992, when we pulled up to the hotel room on the camp grounds. I was 25 years old. We had never been to Living Waters before, but had read in a brochure that they offered a Police Retreat. My former husband was a police officer, and we had booked the weekend well ahead of time. What we didn't know was that I would lose another baby, well into my 2nd trimester, the week prior to coming to camp. We decided not to cancel, though the trauma of that loss was only days old. We also didn't know that I would have physical complications for four solid months after the surgery the doctor performed to remove the baby. Had I lost the baby even a week later, I would have had to deliver her naturally.
I was in pain. My milk had come in. My body still believed there was someone who needed nourishment. I had to wait for two days after the time we found out the baby wasn't alive before I could have the surgery, and I numbly floated around the house caressing my full abdomen, feeling like I was a walking graveyard. I loved that baby.
As my husband unloaded the car, I made my way to the bed, and pretty much stayed there the whole weekend because I was hemorrhaging off and on. I did pray, and I thanked God for providing a place for us to be alone with each other. "Grammy" was watching our two preschool children so we could get away. There was no blaming of God - just questioning what He meant in all of this. I cried out to Him in agony. I will never know why until I get to heaven. My baby would have been 17 this year.
Now, at 43 years old, I was watching these 16 and 17 year old girls joyfully live out each day. I thought of my own lost child, and wondered if she might have been with me, had she lived, working alongside the others.
Still reflecting, I went to the laundry cabin and visited with Pearl and Virginia. I grew to love the time I was able to be with these Senior Saints, folding sheets and towels as we enjoyed each others' company.
We began to talk about our children. Pearl, now in her seventies, spoke of her sons. Then she told me a story of a baby she had lost, and shared the dream she has of what life might have been like if her little girl had lived. Virginia, age 84, also spoke of her own miscarriage. Back in her day, she had to bring the baby to the doctor herself. When she asked the doctor to tell her whether it was a boy or a girl, he simply told her that she needed to stop thinking about it. I relayed the details of the loss of my own little baby, and the memories that surfaced while at camp.
We three women, decades apart, shared a common bond. Relief washed over me as I realized I wasn't the only one who marked the years and told myself, "She would have been two, or five, or ten this year". Miscarriage leaves unfinished business in each mother's heart - no matter how many years pass. A reflective silence filled the room as each of us visited our own day of anguish. There was a comfort in remembering our little ones, and knowing, without words, how deep that love went. On some level, it brought about a sense of peace and yes, even joy.
Camp was not the real world. To me, it was more real. We were all free to be ourselves in a way that wouldn't be accepted any other place. We could let our guards down and show ourselves, warts and all. There was a love and understanding that was so desperately missing in the day to day grind outside the camp's sanctuary.
Leaving camp for the last time, honking the horn and wildly waving, I determined to wake joyfully each morning, letting others around me know I loved them. I pray often that God will give me the grace and ability to be the same "me" that I was at camp. The young voices dancing around me lifting up songs to the Lord are now replaced with the ungrateful demands of a hurried and impatient crowd. I can no longer spend time basking in the comaraderie and wisdom of my older friends around the washing machine, but I cherish the sisterhood we were able to share. These, and many other lessons will remain, cherished in my heart.
Dear Father,
Thank You for the experiences and people you send my way to teach me more about Your amazing love, protection and grace. May I not hoard your blessings and peace. Help me to allow You to shower others with your love through me. I thank you ahead of time for your grace on the days when I fall short.
In Jesus' name...
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