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In a matter of hours, a couple of charter buses will pull up to the gates of camp and unload close to 90 at-risk and inner-city Dallas youth. And so will begin the final week of the Pine Cove Outback.

Some of us have spent 13 weeks out here. That’s over a quarter year. Considering the other three quarters are usually consumed with school, that’s a lot of time, I feel.

But come Sunday, I will pull out onto Highway 71  and start aiming my car at Brownwood, TX. And I’ll have a couple of weeks to actually rest. So may God continue to be gracious until that end.

I am not a detail-man.

Honestly, I almost try to NOT plan sometimes. I like unpredictability, spontaneity, and the sudden intrusion of the unknown.

Last night, though, we had a major wrench thrown into the mix. And for the life of me, I wished that I had had a backup plan ready. You see, someone threw away the grab-flags for the Wednesday night game. We probably shouldn’t have stored them in a trash bag.

Now, our Wed. night game is already my least favorite part of the week. It’s called “Space Invaders” and it involves eager campers trying to take flags from the waistbands of fleeing guy counselors for a whole half hour. Nice if you’re in, like, cross-country, but terrible if you’re in the middle of a week of counseling kids.

I mean, there’s honestly no redeeming goal, nor any way to score points back against the campers. The girl counselors can whack kids with funnoodles and send them to “jail” for a short time, but in the end the dudes are literally sprinting cannon fodder for thirty minutes. But since the kids have fun, and since one of the training mottos we use at camp is “It’s not about you,” the guys suck it up and run like champs. And reload flags. And then run some more. It’s an old camp game that legions of men have toughed through for years, and no one’s quite died yet.

But I know that in their heart-of-hearts, the guys don’t look forward to it at all. So after losing the flags, when people started asking what the heck we were going to do, I decided to try and sell it via element of surprise:

“Well, it’s Space Invaders, but I think a bunch of meteors just crashed to Earth! So we’re gonna use ’em to play four-way Space Dodgeball instead!!!” Upon which cue, our Conference Director dumped a bag of deadly foam balls on the middle of the field. I thought it was a genius move, both rewarding counselors and exciting the children.

Nope.

We don’t allow the guys to throw with their dominant hand in regular dodgeball, because kids get majorly pwned/hurt that way. So when the guys asked if it was true for four-way, and I re-emphasized “no,” I saw faces fall. Nor did it help that I decided to keep the funnoodler girls, since I allowed them to send everyone (guys included) to jail. I’m pretty someone  “accidentally” beaned me with a dodgeball for that one.

And throwing against three teams in three directions is super disorienting. For a while, kids were mildly un-engaged and dude staff were visibly bummed. I was pretty sure it was no fun.

In fact, one little boy actually came up to me from jail and leapt onto my torso, growling and poking me in the sides.

“Grrr!” he told me.

“Dude, you can get off,” I responded, wondering if he were too young to be possesed by a demon. I thought that if so, perhaps it was a vengeful demon. I surmised that I probably deserved this vengance for my poor planning and allowed him to keep “Grrr”ing at me until another counselor plucked him off and trotted him back to his soccer goal “prison.”

Desperate to regain the favor of my staff, we then pulled out an old favorite: the Camper-vs-Counselor round. And the counselors circled up to get krunk and stuff. I came over to talk to them.

“Okay. This is a tough night, and honestly, I will probably go find a corner and cry after this is done,” I told them.  “But right now, this is for the kids, and as far as they’re concerned, this is the best night of the summer. So even if you have to grit your teeth and fake a smile until you ‘make it,’ play well. And if you win… cool.”

This was met with a little more favor. And the counselors actually won, non-dominant hands and all, by a margin of a single person. In the meantime, I played “Fuzzy Says” with the group of kids who were out, which they actually didn’t mind too much.

I didn’t end up having to cry that night. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and let things… suck. But dang it if I don’t have a list of little back-up plans for the future from here on.

My friend Jordyn had the bright idea a few weeks ago to buy John Mayer tickets for a couple of us camp folk. So last night, we drove into the pre-planned suburban goodness of The Woodlands, TX (I shed a tear in your memory, Jon Canterbury) and made our way to Mitchell Pavilion to see a modern god of rock. Reccomendation about the Pavillion, though: do not purchase their Grilled Chicken Sandwich Basket. The onion bun is extravagant, but the chicken is quite miniscule. Plus, they stiff you on the mayo. 9 dollars I’ll never see again…

I don’t feel that way about Johnny, though. Nor the rest of the show in general. Brett Dennen opened (we got there late and only heard his final songs from afar), and then Colbie Caillat took over. This was tough, mainly because whenever Colbie asks over the FM radio if someone will count her in before playing “Bubbly,” I respond “YES.” She did not ask last night. She’s lost some of her humility, I think.

Then Johnny started his show. Shirtless (which was weird). Many shots of his guitar and/or pelvis on the video screens throughout the performance.

But when he rocked… he freaking OWNED. He incorporated cuts from U2 (“I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”), The Talking Heads (“Once In A Lifetime”), and he totally threw down his own rendition of Tom Petty’s “Freefalling.” At one point, he guitar soloed for, I kid you not, like 10 minutes. Including playing over his head and laying the Strat down on the stage so he could finger-hammer the trash out of it. It was thrilling, like watching a high wire act or something. I was all like, “How the heck is he going to get out of this awesome riff-session and still finish the song?”

Before said 10 minute solo, he shared a little piece of his heart. Told us the story of how he’d practice guitar in long bouts of solitude when he was but a young Mayer, thinking of some far-off day when he’d jam in front of big arenas. “That may sound like overconfidence,” he said, “but it’s not. When you practice 6 hours a day it’s just… cocooning yourself in positivity.”

Then he ended well on “Gravity.” And we the audience asked him to come back, so he graciously did, still shirtless. And he did “Vultures” and “Say.” And there was much crying and happiness. Plus, Houston will have full maternity wards 9 months from last night. But I didn’t type that last sentence.

It was a good way to break up the week. Now we’re off to the last regular week of the summer camp season. And after that, we bring in inner city children for the 11th week. I am getting slightly excited/anticipatory about that notion. It will be good to stretch us, I’m certain. Until then, I will follow a variation on John Mayer’s advice. Time to cocoon myself in dependence on the Lord.

I haven’t tubed in like, three or four years. That changed for the better yesterday.

We had a Leadership Weekend, you see. That’s where they take all of our leader-y staff somewhere sweet and let us have tons of ridiculous fun, so that we can stay alive for the last three weeks of camp. Our destination this year was a rad house on Lake McQueeny, which was a hook-up from a veteran Crier Creek attendee. So we hopped into some camp vehicles (I drove a possessed van named Herbie) and made our way down for shennanigans. I am sure I did not spell that correctly.

As soon as I got on the tube, I knew things were going to be nuts. For one, our driver had a mischevious glint in his eye… even behind his Ray-Bans. Or maybe that was just the sun. Whatever.

Two, I felt my arms nearly rip out of their sockets as we took off. That meant we were going fast, I was pretty sure.

And true to worry, we began to jolt here, there, and everywhere as Mr. Williamson took us on a madcap ride ’round McQueeny. I wanted to give up right from the start (dude, my forearms HURT!), but this crazed voice inside me started coaxing me to hang on. So I listened. And then we jumped a huge wake and I got whiplash. And the voice cheered. And I realized that was weird.

I mean, I can be a real pansy sometimes. Normally, I don’t like to dig in and hang on when stuff is hard. But I’m glad I held on to the tube. I had ridiculous amounts of fun, and afterward my forearms throbbed like a champ (you could see VEINS!!!). Plus, I got to scream and giggle like a little girl while water crashed into my face and drool streamed from between clenched teeth. That doesn’t happen often.

It was a sweet way to end a doldrum-y type of a week. I’m comfortable at camp now: it’s not exciting, but it’s not lame either. It just IS. And I think “is” is blah. I want the spikes.

But here’s the thing: Oswald Chambers has been my mentor in a lot of ways this summer, and he was talking (I mean, writing) the other day about not trying to artificially generate those highs and lows. His encouragement was that the real growth and the real goodness just comes from pushing through the doldrums and the plain moments of life. Y’know, choosing to hang on instead of letting go and petering out because you don’t have the desire to do it.

So I’m figuring out how to hang on through the doldrums. And the crazy tube rides. Which probably means that for me, a lot of my walk should mean grabbing the Master’s hand and gripping it hard regardless of the circumstances.

Plus, I’ll get huge forearms. I think the ladies Carlos talks about would like that.

 Friday is my unofficial window to leave camp and get exposure to the real world. Well, kind of. In reality, I get to take a 10-minute drive to buy horse feed in LaGrange, Texas for our evening game. But there’s a Sonic next door that plays secular music.

It’s also a chance to talk to Carlos, who works at the dock there. I think we are becoming friends, and it seems to be a mutually beneficial relationship. For one, we can practice our Spanish together. And for two, he can sell me things. And for three, I actually get to charge it to Pine Cove’s horse… feed…. account.

But he also gives great advice, like at our first meeting.

“You need to get you a nice big Mexican woman,” he told me.

I asked why, then tried to offer a smart remark back. He smiled and shook his head.

“‘Cause she help you practice your Spanish. And no one’s gonna’ try an’ take her away from you. You won’t have to fight agains’ no one for her.”

A valid point, this. A valid point.

This is the suck side of management: professional distance.

I mean, seriously. Familiarity breeds contempt. And they say it’s lonely at the top for a reason: it is a very narrow place to sit down. Not conducive to conversations.

See, in the past, my camp co workers have also been my friends. Close friends. I mean, who better to identify with you when your 3rd grader throws up in the middle of the night than the guy who had it happen to him the week before? There’s this sort of trench combat community that arises from a group of people being stretched in the same ways at the same time.

But now, my co workers are folks I supervise. It’s not like I cherish the position. I’ve never loved lording anything over people.

Now to be fair, I hardly “lord” as it is. My policy decisions are more like changing the Wednesday night game from one variation of Corral the Towel to another. But still, I have this notion that I can’t get too close to the people around me. I need a respectful distance so that people feel comfortable with following my lead, popular or unpopular as the decision ends up.

So I started to get lazy. And then I started getting frustrated.

See, I have two old friends here (we are all 5-year camp veterans) who have equivalent roles to mine. One oversees the work crew and kitchen; one runs the day camp program. Tim and Josh are both dear to me, but a week or so ago, I found myself getting continually irritated with the way they interacted with me.

Then I came across that old part in Matthew’s Gospel where Jesus is fending off some tricky questions. Some dudes ask him if they should pay taxes. Jesus tells ’em to give the coins to the dude who’s picture’s on it. Some dudes ask about marriage in heaven. Jesus tells them it don’t matter. Someone’s all like, hey, who gave John the Baptist the right to preach and stuff? Jesus traps him in his own logic.

Then this scribe comes up. He’s probably an important guy; after all, he’s one of the few literate dudes in that entire civilization. He asks what the greatest commandment is.

Jesus tells him. Love God. Love God a LOT. Then turn around and love your neighbor at least as much as you love your own self.

And to the scribe’s credit, he gets it. He agrees with Rabbi Jesus. And Jesus tells him that since he gets it, it proves this scribe dude is not too far from the Kingdom of Heaven.

It hit me later that day while I was running. I’m not very sure how close I am to the Kingdom sometimes. I don’t doubt the fact of my salvation, but I do doubt my behavior, my proximity to the Lord. And I especially doubt it when I feel removed from my staff and rankled with my co-workers.

But if I’m loving God to the max and people to the max, I’m closer than I know. I’m actually living it out. And then I got this brainflash like: oh carp! I’m frustrated with my two friends… because they’re making efforts to interact with me. They are taking initiative. And I haven’t been caring enough to take intitative… back.

Honestly, with camp being so relationally-based, I may not even need to feel that removed from my staff. But at the LEAST, my job doesn’t give me permission to sit back and not invest in the folks I care about. I’m supposed to pursue those relationships. I’m supposed to fight for them.

So I decided to get serious about it. And things got a lot better. It helps to communicate, I guess.

Point: even if it is lonely up top, at least it’s not isolated. If it feels that way, that’s my fault.

And there’s plenty of room in the Kingdom anyway.

So apparently there was this dude back in the day who invented the modern dome.

The Romans, they had the dome thing down for years. But then, like, Germans invaded and stopped that whole Roman Empire thing and made everyone go Byzantine and then go stupid and then the rats brought the Dark Ages and everyone got so concerned with not coughing to death and inventing modern medicine that they stopped caring about domes and how to build them. So everyone forgot. And folks started lamenting that they couldn’t build pretty churches anymore.

But then this Italian dude whose name started with a B (and I can’t spell it, look up “Florence Cathedral” on Wikipedia and you’ll find it) came along and reinvented the dome. But he was a maverick builder. He didn’t give full schematics to his men; he abandoned the project for a couple years just to prove a point to a rival builder; and he was weird as all get out. He didn’t play by the rules, but he did what was neccessary to get his purpose accomplished.

I heard this the other night in a talk, and i was like, “Dang. I want to be like that guy.”

Can I play outside rules? I’m really hemmed in by wanting to follow fair play rules.

Hmmm…

We survived another week. No one got seriously hurt, and we pretty much pwned the Pink Eye. We had more kids than usual, and the counselors did well.

But the best part of the week… man, the best part of the week…

A little child stood up during camper share night. He was the kind of kid you’d hire to be pose for a box of Life cereal or something. 7 or 8 years old, messy hair, big toothy grin. He took the mic we were passing around and said:

“I came here and already knew about Jesus. But this week, I found out He was amazing.”

Skip the whole supervisor thing. Probablyreason that I’m doing what I do this summer (I am reminded) is so that I can hear kids say this kind of stuff. And so I can remember the same thing.

So I beat the essay. I graduated college.

It was actually a month ago. I think I would have written more about it at the time, but the next day (THE NEXT DAY) I went to work at summer camp. For the fifth summer in a row. This means I get a free laptop bag as thanks.

It also means that I haven’t gotten to process the real world yet. That’s alright, though. Instead of mulling through the good times and grieving over the fact that they’re now past, I’ve been tossing myself headfirst against a giant brick wall of Program Directing. As in, Ben gets to make schedules and figure out how 2nd graders get from Blobbing to Archery to Horseback Riding. It requires powers of organization. Last I checked, I was trying my best to stay away from those powers. Winging it, of course.

It also requires me to supervise people. Not just counsel them (I did that with the kids: 2 summers). Not just senior-counsel them (I did that with the counselors: 1 summer). SUPERVISE them. As in, I am a boss.

I say “jump” and folks have to say “how high?” I say “coffee” and they ask “cream or sugar?” I say “both” and then my boss tells me to get back to work. And so on.

This isn’t what I set out to do. Supervising means that you have to be responsible for the people who work for you. It means you have to wisely excercise power. Either that, or John Maxwell and his small books that he sells in airports are full of horse hockey.

That’s not easy stuff. I didn’t have to worry about either of those things back at University. You only have to worry about that kind of stuff in the… oh, wait.

The Real World.

Dang it.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The best part of the past four weeks, though, was the Pink Eye I got on Sunday.

Now, at camp, Pink Eye can easily become epidemic. Mildly epidemic, and nothing near deadly, but parents sure hate it when their kids come home all itchy and watery-eyed. So, if you get the Evil Eye at camp, they give you medicated eyedrops and stick you in quarantine for 24 hours.

I spent mine in the stir with a copy of “The Stand” (the book I’d like most to conquer this summer) and 3 of my counselors, all of whom are studs. Our conversation was refreshing- I loved how they communicated their desire to be effective for Christ. Whether in counseling, in friendship, or even at a skate-park ministry… they were real about it. I miss that kind of enthusiasm. I feel like my attempts to even touch cultural relevance kill those desires.

But I realized something else, and this was HUGE for me: while I was cordoned off, camp was running just fine. As in, the presence of Ben Humeniuk mattered not one whit. Things still happened on time, campers still had fun, the world still rotated on its axis like usual. I had been so busy trying to be a good supervisor, trying to figure out my leadership and cover any exposed insecurities, that I honestly didn’t think that this would be the case. The program rides on the program director’s shoulders, right?

So my pride started to dissipate a little. And when I got sprung from quarantine, camp became something that I had missed for the previous four weeks: fun.

I still want time to process graduation. I mean, I have two friends who moved to a stinking foreign country just days after leaving Waco. I won’t see them for a year. I need to sit down and miss them for a few minutes, you know?

But until then, I think I’m in a good place to get my grow-up on. May the return of responsibility be a good one. May I not make Michael Scott look like a management genius by comparison.

And may I be enthused about my ministry. Because that Joy is my strength.

3,000 words.

That, plus an exam, are all that stand between me and the end of college.

Well, there’s that walking the stage part too, but all you gotta do is show up and be mobile. You can even sit in your chair and sleep through all the iterations of Canon in D until they call your name. Then you walk on stage, shake some hands, hope President Lilley doesn’t remember that you drew some pretty uncomplementary cartoons of him during your time at the school paper, grab the diploma, head back to the chair, sleep some more, toss the hat in the air, etc, etc, etc.

At least it’s not work. Not like ESSAYS.

3,000 words.

And I’d rather put ’em off by typing these 127.

Dang it.