Great Expectations

I was writing out a blog entry in my head on Friday morning. Getting ready for Community Camp, thinking of what wisdom I could spout to the masses (er, okay...ye few), about the importance of pushing oneself and making compromises and putting yourself in situations less comfortable. I thought I would write about how I didn't feel at home at Harvest for a few years—yes, years!--and how it took discipline to overcome that. It took signing up for things and volunteering and joining a small group and having coffee with people that I didn't necessarily “click” with. And then I would segway into how Camp was also that, all over again, pushing myself with a payout at the end—of intimacy and shared vulnerability with people that I wouldn't have expected to be in relationship with.

But alas, my time at Camp was very different from what I imagined, so I will not be writing that post today. In the days leading up to Camp I pulled a muscle in my back, I got a fever and a bad sore throat that eventually turned into a mild cold. I debated going, but in the end, my desire for a weekend with my family—small scale and broad—got me up Friday morning, packing and cleaning the house.

I won't go into a ton of details, but I will say that the drive up there and back were spent with cramps, stomach issues, pain. That when I got there I had no appetite, I couldn't eat, and was so emotional with the stress of my pain that I went to our cabin almost immediately and didn't come out. I couldn't stop crying. I didn't want to be around anyone. But I got our room ready, and the boys were excited, and I let go of my self-worry for long enough to send Seth back to the bonfire and let the boys out of their beds, into mine, on either side of me, and we turned out all the lights and they played with their flashlights. Seth came in to check on me and bring me some water, and he smiled and told me that he knew I didn't feel good, but that this was making camp so great for them. I smiled, too, and told him that this is what they would remember. And this is what I would remember. This is the fun stuff. This was what was worth it.

Ash wouldn't sleep on the top bunk. I don't blame him—no rail. And Zimrie wouldn't sleep at all. He finally fell asleep beside me and Seth came to bed late, and the three of us tossed all night in that bed, Zimrie crawling on my chest, and two minutes later, turning around, laying his head on Seth. Hardly any sleep gotten, the next day was good, but hard. The women's morning devotion was really great. The importance of knowing God and knowing ourselves and our position and how we are able to trust him and have real hope in a God that is truly good, that truly cares. A friend of mine referenced Hinds Feet on High Places, how suffering and sorrow are two of God's greatest guides, and how that can make little sense to us at times. But God is constant throughout all of that. He doesn't leave us.

Seth and I had good conversations about accepting things as they come, about not letting our expectations get in the way of God's provision. And many parts of the day were good—some even joyful.

The boys didn't take naps which was okay, but meant that I would have to skip out on the talent show to put them to bed early, and then I sat on a wasp and got my first-ever wasp sting, right on my rear. And then I was convinced that I was allergic to wasps and could feel my muscles atrophying with paralysis. And then Zimrie screamed for over an hour and Asher fell asleep and didn't get to go to the talent show either, and would be sad about it all the next day. And then Zimrie got giddy and delirious and I couldn't take my makeup off because the wipes package is too noisy and would wake up the boys and my stomach hurt and I needed my medicine, but I can't see in the dark to get it. And my bum hurts with every step from that stupid wasp and the muscle I pulled in my back feels like a knife when I turn just the wrong way and Zimrie finally falls asleep, but wakes up as soon as I lay him down. And I have sung him the Winnie the Pooh song about fifteen times with a sore throat, and I really just want a drink of water, but my phone is dead and I can't text Seth or know what time it is and I don't dare turn on a light or the faucet to get some.

And in these long moments, I was sad and mad and frustrated and desperate, but I still felt a certain peace. I thought about how miniscule my “suffering” is in comparison to others', but I try to believe that God cares anyway. And I thought about how Zimrie's suffering is very real to himself in that moment, and I don't belittle him or his pain or his over-tiredness that is partly my fault and partly his own. I have my thoughts of, Oh my gosh, you have to go to sleep! But I am always holding him, I never put him down, alone in a strange new place. I thought while walking him around our tiny room—that if he remembers being sad and tired and sick, that I hope he remembers that I was there—that I was his constant companion. I held him and prayed for him that he would know God's love in his life, and asked that I could be one of the people to show it to him.

I fell asleep, having given up, him in my bed yet again, me singing to him. I was wide awake at midnight. Seth slept on the tiny bottom bunk with the inch-thick mattress and Asher's tissue-thin blanket. And I was up most of the night, but I was actually grateful: that we were all together, that no one was crying, that everyone else was getting sleep and resting.

On leaving, Seth said that overall it was a really good weekend, that it was hard, but good. And he asked me if I'd had a good weekend, and I thought and said, It was good in the way that suffering produces character. Which I half meant to be funny, but mostly just meant. It's something that I'm glad I experienced, but I wouldn't want to experience it again.

Not that I don't want to go back next year. Next year will be a completely different story. Our boys will be older, we will be different. Who knows.

And just because it didn't meet my expectations of what I wanted or thought I needed, doesn't mean I shouldn't have gone, or it was a mistake, or a waste of time. It was what it was. It was what God provided, and I feel like I accepted it, and even in the midst of my tears and complaints, I was sometimes even able to mutter a thank you.