As always, Erin, I appreciate the humans and their voices that you lift up. Tammy and I have directed a church family camp for a number of years. Earlier this spring we were asked to write a paragraph or so naming an impact we saw as a result of the camp. Partly because it is a UCC camp, and I think also because it is an inter-generational camp, some of the paradoxes you and Cara named are a bit different. It's not perfect, nor is it for everyone. But for many, it is a lifeline. It is worth noting we live in a part of the country where youth camps of all stripes are in serious decline too. But here is what we wrote:
The Freedom to Be
One of the great gifts of family camp at Moon Beach is the multi-layered way people of all ages have the freedom to explore who they are in the world. This means children and adults exploring their faith in new ways. It means allowing children to feel the freedom to explore nature, the water and the open space of camp in a world of schedules and organized activities.
In our case, it also has meant the freedom and safety for young people and their parents to explore what it means to live as non binary or transgendered people. We have a number of teens who have transitioned over the years they have been coming to camp. They and their parents have valued the loving and welcoming faith community that emerges at camp. They come to know a sense of belonging in a new way.
Over the years the religious and cultural context has become even more dangerous, and one can not underestimate the power of a spiritual community to process all that these transitions entail. More than anything, we have witnessed the powerful transformations in young people who have felt truly seen for who they are, and who they are becoming.
Wint! Of course, you would be a part of gorgeous intergenerational church camp where people experience freedom and safety to explore all of who they are. Thanks for sharing this, as you say, not paradox but possibility of what a church camp can be at its best.
I went to Quaker camp, which was a slightly different animal. A weird, funky, have silent meeting every day but also skinny-dip whenever we could kind of hippie-fied, Christian mystic animal. It saved me in many ways as a kid and young adult. I was a camper for seven years and then on staff for seven years, from 9 years old until the summer after I graduated from college-- hiking the AT, white water canoeing, rock climbing, and silly in-camp days full of themed relays and arts and crafts and swimming in the creek. But there were also Lord of the Flies sorts of moments, where I felt like I had to conform to certain ways of being that were outside my comfort zone lest they eat me up. I also got fondled by a counselor when I was young (not the worst abuse I've experienced, but shocking at the time) and then one of my campers was fondled by one of my co-counselors when I was in early college. Luckily, by then times had changed enough that she told me, I told the director, he had to leave, and the community had to deal with what we had allowed. Even with that, though, I was excited for my kids to attend, which they did for a bunch of years. Though we live much farther north from there now, so they didn't go on to be staff like I did.
For all of its failings, I loved that weird community so much. It felt like a enactment of what Quakers teach about community and that of God in everyone, and I hoped my kids would get that from it. That maybe it would ignite their faith in the way it had mine since I was bad, otherwise, at supporting them in having a faith life at all, really. I didn't anticipate that the ways I had taught them not to hide themselves like I had learned to do would make the ways in which camp enforced its norms even more abrasive than it had been for me. For me, it hurt but also sanded down my sharp edges somewhat. For my trans autistic son it just hurt eventually. I don't think anyone meant to hurt him, and I know I didn't mean for him to be hurt, but he was, and that will always be a sadness for me.
Thank you for generously sharing your space, sweet Erin. Appreciate you!
As always, Erin, I appreciate the humans and their voices that you lift up. Tammy and I have directed a church family camp for a number of years. Earlier this spring we were asked to write a paragraph or so naming an impact we saw as a result of the camp. Partly because it is a UCC camp, and I think also because it is an inter-generational camp, some of the paradoxes you and Cara named are a bit different. It's not perfect, nor is it for everyone. But for many, it is a lifeline. It is worth noting we live in a part of the country where youth camps of all stripes are in serious decline too. But here is what we wrote:
The Freedom to Be
One of the great gifts of family camp at Moon Beach is the multi-layered way people of all ages have the freedom to explore who they are in the world. This means children and adults exploring their faith in new ways. It means allowing children to feel the freedom to explore nature, the water and the open space of camp in a world of schedules and organized activities.
In our case, it also has meant the freedom and safety for young people and their parents to explore what it means to live as non binary or transgendered people. We have a number of teens who have transitioned over the years they have been coming to camp. They and their parents have valued the loving and welcoming faith community that emerges at camp. They come to know a sense of belonging in a new way.
Over the years the religious and cultural context has become even more dangerous, and one can not underestimate the power of a spiritual community to process all that these transitions entail. More than anything, we have witnessed the powerful transformations in young people who have felt truly seen for who they are, and who they are becoming.
Wint! Of course, you would be a part of gorgeous intergenerational church camp where people experience freedom and safety to explore all of who they are. Thanks for sharing this, as you say, not paradox but possibility of what a church camp can be at its best.
I went to Quaker camp, which was a slightly different animal. A weird, funky, have silent meeting every day but also skinny-dip whenever we could kind of hippie-fied, Christian mystic animal. It saved me in many ways as a kid and young adult. I was a camper for seven years and then on staff for seven years, from 9 years old until the summer after I graduated from college-- hiking the AT, white water canoeing, rock climbing, and silly in-camp days full of themed relays and arts and crafts and swimming in the creek. But there were also Lord of the Flies sorts of moments, where I felt like I had to conform to certain ways of being that were outside my comfort zone lest they eat me up. I also got fondled by a counselor when I was young (not the worst abuse I've experienced, but shocking at the time) and then one of my campers was fondled by one of my co-counselors when I was in early college. Luckily, by then times had changed enough that she told me, I told the director, he had to leave, and the community had to deal with what we had allowed. Even with that, though, I was excited for my kids to attend, which they did for a bunch of years. Though we live much farther north from there now, so they didn't go on to be staff like I did.
For all of its failings, I loved that weird community so much. It felt like a enactment of what Quakers teach about community and that of God in everyone, and I hoped my kids would get that from it. That maybe it would ignite their faith in the way it had mine since I was bad, otherwise, at supporting them in having a faith life at all, really. I didn't anticipate that the ways I had taught them not to hide themselves like I had learned to do would make the ways in which camp enforced its norms even more abrasive than it had been for me. For me, it hurt but also sanded down my sharp edges somewhat. For my trans autistic son it just hurt eventually. I don't think anyone meant to hurt him, and I know I didn't mean for him to be hurt, but he was, and that will always be a sadness for me.