The Pits

Family Camp.

I’d never heard of such a thing until I joined the staff at my church a handful of years ago. “Family” and “camp” are not two words I’d willingly butt up against each other, and frankly, they are not two of my favorite words at all.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family. But like most of you, the images and feelings the word conjures up are not all fairies and rainbows. And camp? Ugh. That’s the place, where, as a kid, I fit in even less than in real life. There are not a lot of kids with their noses in books at camp. Not a lot of kids with severe pollen allergies at camp. Not a lot of kids afraid to swim or so nearsighted, they have to sleep with their glasses on so they don’t trip the minute they crawl out of their sleeping bag (hypothetically speaking).

So when my boss started talking about the need for Family Camp volunteers, I didn’t instantly throw my hand up in the air and yell, “Pick me! Pick me!”

It turns out, Family Camp is sort of like the cruise version of camp. The campers show up at pre-arranged activities (or not), go off on their own to canoe or swim (or not), eat generously portioned meals that accommodate gluten-free, dairy-free, and meat-free needs (or not), and just generally play away from home for a couple of days.

There are kids at Family Camp who spend the weekend with their nose in a book, as well as adventurous monkeys who tackle the ropes course and Wet ‘n Wild-style pool slide. Plenty of kids-only activities create a bit of respite for parents now and again, but overall, the idea is togetherness. It’s all very kumbaya. (Yes, I’m a cynic. Family Camp is great. Folks love it. I’m still a cynic.)

But frankly, I think the kids and their parents are all missing out on the true glory of Family Camp: work crew.

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.

Running Family Camp—the actual three days folks attend—demands a volunteer staff of thirty to fifty people. Some of those folks work on programming (otherwise known as entertainment), but most of the volunteers are the grunts who set up the dining hall, serve food, and wash dishes.

And two of those grunts are Matt and me. And we love it. As in L-O-V-E it.

Weird, right?

The first year we volunteered, we worked the dining hall. It was exhausting. Imagine this: three times a day, a room that seats three hundred-ish people has to be completely cleaned, top to bottom, set up for full-service meals right down to the last salad fork, and then bussed after each meal.

Oh, and the dining hall folks also serve all the food.

Oh. My. GAWD.

I couldn’t move at the end of the day, barely able to crawl into my bunk in the Siesta Key cabin, Matt sprawled into an upper bunk in the dude hut next door. But still, we both liked it. We liked that there was a massive amount of work to do that did not involve a spreadsheet or a meeting. Our “clients” were all in a good mood. The food was plentiful and cooked by someone named Not Me. And it was impossible not to feel an enormous sense of accomplishment looking at a sparkling dining room that was one hundred percent set up by Matt, me, a couple of other adults, and a whole big bunch of sleepy teenagers.

Good stuff.

So the next year, we were disappointed to learn that we were moving to The Pits. In restaurant parlance, this is known as the dish ring, but at Family Camp? The Pits.

And Lord help us, we loved that even more. We spent three days scraping and spraying and loading enormous racks of ketchup and syrup encrusted plates into a commercial grade dishwasher. We got so soaked with steam and sweat and food bits, we had to change our clothes after every meal. Our fingers and toes stayed pruney.

But we loved it. So much, that Matt signed us up for the next year, too.

And so it was that I just spent three days of my (MY!) spring break shoulder to shoulder with Matt plus four young teachers, singing Disney tunes at the top of my lungs and yelling stuff like, “ARE THOSE TRAYS DONE SOAKING?” and “WHOA! WHOA! THE HOBART IS JAMMED!”

I am not even exaggerating, y’all.

Family Camp.

I wonder why we do it, of course. The upside seems slight. Although I get a great workout, I end up gaining weight (did I mention the plentiful food?). Sleep is fitful when sharing a cabin with a dozen or so acquaintances-slash-strangers. The place is out in the boonies, so I can’t access Instagram. And I miss my dog.

But still.

There is something terribly rewarding about unplugging from my normal life and washing filthy dishes for three days. It’s inexplicable, really. I don’t go looking for tough labor in my own home. I have my own housekeeper, for crying out loud. And it’s not like Family Camp affords me the opportunity to connect with nature because I spend the whole weekend either in The Pits or catching a nap in my bunk.

I’ve thought a lot about this, and I think it boils down to this: I see immediate results of the work of my hands. It’s why Matt likes to mow the lawn. In less than an hour, he sees remarkable before and after. The same is true of a steamy tiled room piled literally to the ceiling with dirty dishes. Two hours later, all is clean and neatly tucked away. How often, in my work and my relationships, do I get a front-row seat to transformation?

Almost never.

I’d like to say we volunteer at Family Camp so we can provide a safe place for families to learn to communicate with and enjoy each other. Blah blah blah. That’d be a lie. I mean, really. Family Camp is great and all. But if the time spent was about joining God in restorative work, I’d pick a different way to do that. Jesus didn’t really talk a lot, that I know of, about families spending time together. I mean, He did, sort of, when he taught us about loving and serving each other. But he spoke more about widows and orphans and otherwise outcast folks (and, to be sure, there lots of adopted kiddos at Family Camp, some from impoverished countries and some with special needs and some with both—so there’s that).

I’m off track. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t go to Family Camp because I sense a deep spiritual calling to go support families in Ocklawaha, Florida. There’s no holiness in dishes, as far as I’m concerned. Many spiritual guides I love would vehemently disagree with me, but I'm just not there yet. It's a journey.

What I think is this: the simplicity of hard labor is, all by itself, gloriously beautiful. There is such peace and symmetry in knowing my job is the soaker sinks and your job is scraper and his job is put away. At one point, I told Matt (no lie), “I could do this every day for the rest of my life.” And I meant it.

Feet moving, arms aching, dirty dishes ever coming, clean dishes ready to go back out to the dining room. Over and over again. My brain settles and soothes. It’s like sleeping with my eyes open. Except for the part about the Disney songs.

It’s the weirdest thing, I know. Hard to explain.

But I bet you my bottom dollar I’ll be at Family Camp soaking up the suds come this time next year.