By Rev. Justin Cox
I can tell you the moment I knew my time as youth minister was over.
I can tell you because my body and senses still remember the most minute details.
I can still feel the sun’s blister-inducing heat penetrating my fair skin as I leave the mess hall with my students.
I can still taste the tasteless, powdery, claggy eggs that pass as staple summer camp cuisine. Along with haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and a heart that devises wicked schemes, enervated prepared eggs are an abomination to the Lord.
I still hear the laughter and the murmur of the most reverent and irresponsible subject matter coming from the mouths of young adults clinging to the slipping-away solstitial season of their lives.
My nose runneth over with a concoction of pollen, AXE Body Spray, and socks that should have been washed on Monday. It’s Wednesday.
And my eyes see one of the students’ parents. He’s walking toward us, but I know he shouldn’t be there. He left yesterday when I arrived—the two of us passing the baton, tagging in and out like Hawk and Animal from the Legion of Doom. The arrangement was made because I had a two-month-old baby at home. I wanted her to grow up knowing her father, so I thought it best not to leave her sleep-lacking mother alone for a week.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I went back home, did what I needed to do, and decided to come back. I really wanted to be with you all,” he said.
“Isn’t that like a, what, a two-and-a-half-hour trip?” I say back.
“More like three,” he tells me.
The kids surround him, slapping him on the back. The far too aggressive high fives commence.
Off the lake, I feel the winds of change blowing. Even in the muggy South, the winds of change are chilly.
I have 2 more days at the camp with the kids, but I know a shift has taken place. My time as their El Capitan, their Manager of Mayhem, their Peter Pan was over.
I know this because as I trudge up a steep incline leading back to the cabin, I confess to the great cloud of witnesses I can only feel around me that I would never do what that parent just did.
To read the full article, click here
Photo by Luke Porter on Unsplash
By Rev. Justin Cox
I can tell you the moment I knew my time as youth minister was over.
I can tell you because my body and senses still remember the most minute details.
I can still feel the sun’s blister-inducing heat penetrating my fair skin as I leave the mess hall with my students.
I can still taste the tasteless, powdery, claggy eggs that pass as staple summer camp cuisine. Along with haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and a heart that devises wicked schemes, enervated prepared eggs are an abomination to the Lord.
I still hear the laughter and the murmur of the most reverent and irresponsible subject matter coming from the mouths of young adults clinging to the slipping-away solstitial season of their lives.
My nose runneth over with a concoction of pollen, AXE Body Spray, and socks that should have been washed on Monday. It’s Wednesday.
And my eyes see one of the students’ parents. He’s walking toward us, but I know he shouldn’t be there. He left yesterday when I arrived—the two of us passing the baton, tagging in and out like Hawk and Animal from the Legion of Doom. The arrangement was made because I had a two-month-old baby at home. I wanted her to grow up knowing her father, so I thought it best not to leave her sleep-lacking mother alone for a week.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I went back home, did what I needed to do, and decided to come back. I really wanted to be with you all,” he said.
“Isn’t that like a, what, a two-and-a-half-hour trip?” I say back.
“More like three,” he tells me.
The kids surround him, slapping him on the back. The far too aggressive high fives commence.
Off the lake, I feel the winds of change blowing. Even in the muggy South, the winds of change are chilly.
I have 2 more days at the camp with the kids, but I know a shift has taken place. My time as their El Capitan, their Manager of Mayhem, their Peter Pan was over.
I know this because as I trudge up a steep incline leading back to the cabin, I confess to the great cloud of witnesses I can only feel around me that I would never do what that parent just did.
To read the full article, click here
Photo by Luke Porter on Unsplash