On picking up a child from summer camp when summer camp is all over the news
All children are our children.
I’m sitting in my car in the dark, just outside the camp entrance. This is where we wait to pick up counselors for their day off — 9:30? 9:45? Maybe 10 PM? Whenever they’re through with their staff meeting.
I have time.
I shut off the ignition so it’s dark enough to see the fireflies and the glow of light from a few bunk windows visible through the dense cluster of spruces and pines. I lower the window a bit to hear the crickets, but the humidity has other plans. I turn on the car without starting the engine to catch some air, and the radio turns on, barely above a whisper.
Sirius XM 1st Wave. My comfort music. Preset #2.
The Preset #6 button for MSNBC is just a pinky’s length away but I dare not click over.
Alone with my thoughts (and OMD and Echo and the Bunnymen), I try to finish the NYT Spelling Bee, but the limited cell phone signal won’t cooperate.
I hear the distinctive opening notes of Taps, the universal summer camp signal that it’s time for all campers to scurry back to their cabins for the night, back to the rows of bunk beds covered with puffy quilts and milky blankets, Squishmallows and teddy bears from home, a little extra something to hug while they’re away.
We miss them — our campers and our counselors. Terribly. Every time. But we know how much these short weeks mean to them.
It’s lights out, and the windows go dark. I imagine the girls snuggling up under their sheets, giggling, whispering, until they’re shushed by exhausted counselors and they fall asleep to the whir of the ceiling fan.
They’ll wake up in the morning to their best friends in the world, wriggle into clean shorts and tees, force a toothbrush into their mouths, drag themselves to breakfast, and start another day of silliness, of swimming, of rock painting, of bug juice.
They’ll wake up in the morning.
I can barely bring myself to look at the after-storm photos of Camp Mystic.
The subjects are so familiar that they’d be otherwise unremarkable.
Trunks with socks and swimsuits peeking out the sides. Beach towels with name labels on the tags, hanging up to dry along a slack clothesline. Painted metal beds with their worn springs. Sleeping bags with cartoon characters. A tangle of flip-flops and Crocs. Crayon art on the walls. An array of purple and teal and bright pink bedding tossed haphazardly on the cabin floors, as if it were laundry pick-up day.
Only it’s not laundry pick-up day. And the photos are not unremarkable.
The bedding is caked in mud while sticks and leaves hang on the line alongside the crumpled, filthy, soaking wet towels. Whatever wall art left is curled up and torn. The painted wooden drawers are no longer in the dressers. The cabin floor is deep black, hardly distinguishable from the soaked ground outside.
There are no children on the beds.
I keep thinking about what else we don’t see: The friendship bracelets made for siblings back home in their favorite colors. The photos of the dogs and cats and grandparents they miss. The construction paper awards for a bullseye at archery or a campfire, well-built. The special kids toothpaste with the sparkles that costs too much because okay, fine, it’s camp, so you can pick out whichever one you want if you promise to use it.
It’s too easy to lose myself in the grief.
All children are our children, Kailash Satyarthi reminded us.
All children at Camp Mystic. All children at the US border just hoping for a better life. All children in wars, in refugee camps, in hospitals, or somewhere separated from the parents they love, whether by acts of nature or acts of cruelty.
They are all ours and my heart just hurts so much lately. Too much.
Two slight silhouettes head toward my car with that sort of wiggly skip-bounce stride reserved for the young and happy. Can it be 9:45 already?
I see Sage and her friend more clearly as they enter the outer perimeter of the glow of the dashboard. They have pillows under their arms and tote bags full enough for a 40-hour leave.
I flash back to the first time I picked Sage up from her first week-long stay at this same camp — she was 7. She ran into my arms crying, wrapping her legs around me like a koala.
“It’s okay! It’s okay!” I comforted her. “I’m here, Mommy’s here.”
“I’m not crying because I missed you,” she sobbed. “I’m crying because I don’t want to leave.”
Now, 11 years later, I step out of the car to greet her but I don’t expect that this time it’s me who will bury my face into the crook between her neck and shoulders, hugging her, never wanting to let her go.
“Mom! You don’t have to cry!”
“It’s been a tough news week,” was all I could manage to say.
“Really tough.”
If you want to support the victims of the Texas flooding, you can donate to Kerr County Flood Relief, H-E-B, Team Rubicon, Direct Relief, or World Central Kitchen, who was on the ground feeding people from day one, as always, because they know that hungry people can’t eat prayers. Find other vetted charities through Charity Navigator.
You might also contact Congress and tell them to stop defunding Americorps, FEMA, the National Weather Service, and NOAA.
My daughter cancelled my grandson's 2 week summer sleep away camp, hes been going to a local day camp and loves it and she is close by if needed, just couldnt find the heart to send him away. Im heartbroken for everyone child who was lost, for every parent who lost their precious child, for the first responders who had to witness this horrible climate disaster. I send heartfelt prayers and condolences. May they rest in heavenly peace
No words…..