When I was in high school I spent a good portion of my summers working at a local church camp. It wasn't as big as some, but it was big enough. Big enough to feel like home.
There was one large lodge, one smaller lodge, and three individual cabins. All told we were about 100 people every week, all crammed in for meals and shouts and singing all day long.
This is the place where I learned to do something with my faith. To reach out and touch someone when they were hurting, even if I didn't have the words to say. That's something I realized long after I thought I'd failed in my wordlessness.
But every Saturday the parents would arrive after lunch to pick up their kids and the staff would walk around picking up random things and cleaning the bathrooms, but it all felt hollow. We could still be plenty loud as a staff, but there was something missing.
Even now when I go back for staff gatherings or random events it's not quite the same. Home is that feeling when everything is right and you can't think for the joy of being that's running through your veins. This was camp to me.
Home. For a few weeks every summer.
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