REAGAN VOETBERG

One summer when I was 12 going on 13, I spent a week at the greatest place in the world: Camp Geneva, on the shores of Lake Michigan.

This was my fourth summer, and the first entering Geneva Pines, the middle school side of camp.

The first day at camp was always a little tiring. Checking in early Monday morning, meeting a bunch of new cabinmates, and completing the obligatory swim test and camp tour. The ball really started rolling on Tuesday.

My cabin became friends quickly that week, which doesn’t happen often. We all hung out in a big group together during free time. Usually there were something like cliques that formed within a cabin, at least in my experience.

Our counselor was Aunt Lexie. It was a long standing tradition to call counselors “Aunt” and “Uncle” to remind campers that we are all part of God’s family.

Aunt Lexie was upbeat and fun and had all sorts of stories to tell. The one I remember most clearly was when she described using a GPS to drive somewhere in Chicago, but the GPS led her in the wrong direction, in a sense. In another sense, it was exactly the right direction. Written on the wall there in graffiti was a word she needed to hear from God about where she was headed next in life. I can’t remember now what that word was, but the story made an impression on me.

I really began to admire her, and it must have been Tuesday when I made the decision that changed my life.

We were about to start TAWG that day which stands for “Time alone with God”. The counselors in our cabin cluster, there were four of them, wanted to split us into different activity groups. Aunt Lexie led a group teaching us how to write letters from God to ourselves. Another counselor offered a craft of some kind. All the girls gravitated to that craft activity except a couple. I was caught in between.

I can’t remember what made me join Aunt Lexie’s group, because I really wanted to do the craft. It may have been the prompting of a cabinmate. Or that the counselors were trying to even out the groups more and I sacrificed myself, so to speak. It was a good thing I did.

My group went into one of the cabin’s lobbies. It was quiet, and the only light came filtering in through the windows. Aunt Lexie gave us notebook paper and instructed us to pray and write a letter to God first, asking for whatever twelve-year-olds ask for.

Once we finished that letter, we prayed again and flipped it around, writing a letter from God to ourselves.

Aunt Lexie said when she’d done it in the past, she hardly knew what she was writing until she reached the conclusion. The Holy Spirit guided her hand.

And it happened that way for me, and that’s when the fire lit inside. Almost instantaneously, “Oh, God still speaks to us!”, a eureka moment.

When I was younger I called this moment in my life “the great understanding.” Jesus’s love wrapped around me like a blanket; it was so visceral. I wanted everyone to know about it.

The next day we had our ‘consecration’ night. Wednesday evening at camp we had a special night “set apart”, where the silliness and fun of camp slowed down for a couple hours. The counselors dressed up and showed us the serious side of their faith in Christ.

Usually that night was a drag for me, but that week I looked forward to it.

I remember listening intently to the chaplain’s sermon, and I stayed outside for a long time writing in my journal, praying for more words from God.

As the sun set, I walked back to my cabin, where the rest of my cabinmates had gathered and already made a list of who would go first for one-on-ones with our counselor. I was towards the end. One-on-ones were a time where each camper could talk to their counselor individually about any topic we chose.

I didn’t want to be towards the end of the list. Typically one-on-ones terrified me but that fire inside me drove me forward. I wanted to talk with my counselor about this spiritual awakening, because I knew she would be encouraging.

One friend switched spots with me on the list. I was grateful.

When it was my turn to talk to Aunt Lexie, I showed her my journal and what I’d written in it, and she prayed with me. I very much admired her and credited her with bringing the fire in me to life.

I received the journal in a special way as well, which I explained to Aunt Lexie. I was at the camp store one day and looked at the journal rack and felt something stir inside, like I should buy one. But I waited. Purchasing my daily candy bar was more important.

I was in the store again the next day and I looked at the journals and I knew I had to purchase one. I looked at the amount of money I had left. Five dollars. The price of a green Camp Geneva journal? Also five dollars. I took it off the shelf. Another precious moment given to me from God.

Leaving camp that week was more difficult than it had ever been. I hugged my cabinmates tight. We exchanged numbers and instagram handles and emails. We all kept in touch for maybe a year before the bonds began to fade. I emailed Aunt Lexie a couple times.

For about a week or two after camp I still had that fire in me. It faded eventually. I wanted it to come back, and perhaps it did at times, but never as strongly. Although my faith became my own in the ashes of that fire, and that has lingered since.