I must have jumped a foot when the heavy preaching Bible struck me squarely in the chest.
“That was pretty good, but I could do better.”
I looked down into a serious expression on a perfectly round face framed by large glasses and topped off by an unruly cowlick. I struggled to keep from laughing. I had just finished preaching my first sermon of junior high week at Georgia State Camp. Obviously, my “masterpiece” did not measure up to these lofty standards.
“You really think you could do better?”
“Yes!” His vigorous nod set the cowlick flopping.
“Fine. You have ten minutes tomorrow night before I preach.”
“I’ll be ready.”
And he was. The sermon was excellent — Scripture memorized and accompanied by simple, hard-hitting points that kept the attention of the other campers. He blew past the ten-minute mark without slowing and nodded at me confidently when he stepped off the platform after fifteen. I could almost read his mind: “I told you I could do better!”
It’s one of my favorite memories from Camp Mt. Bethel.
My memories there start early, in the fourth grade as a first-time camper. Somehow, my duffel bag was lost along the way.
I spent the entire week wearing the same sweaty, dirty clothes. Gross! No amount of borrowed Polo™ colognecould mask that aroma.
Memories continue through my junior high and high school years, an endless blur of shaving cream wars, water-balloon fights, mischievous pranks, late night escapades, groggy mornings, pool wars, ping-pong
tournaments, canoe races, basketball, banquets, and bonfires. In short...camp!
During college, I returned to Mt. Bethel as the full-time summer evangelist after my freshman and sophomore years. Scarcely older than those to whom I preached (and likely younger than a few of them), those long, hot weeks stretched me and molded me for ministry.
It’s odd. Looking back, I cannot recall a single point from all the messages I heard (or even preached) during those years, although I recall being moved deeply. Instead, I remember faces and decisions.
The faces: Bronco West and his chalk drawings; Laura Belle Barnard and her stories about India; “Uncle” Bud Hill with his dry sense of humor; Jake (Brother Jakey) Creech and his crazy skits; Miss Sarah, the camp cook for whom I cracked at least ten thousand eggs; William Smith, the state camp director and chief prankster; and Chris, the cowlicked “junior preacher.” That doesn’t even begin to describe other camper friends, counselors, and coworkers.
The decisions: one night, I slipped away from the canteen lights and walked around the lake to the “bonfire rocks.” Sitting in the moonlight, I told God “I surrender all” for the first time. Two years later, I reaffirmed that surrender, even if it meant full-time ministry.
And it wasn’t just my decisions. One night during my first year as evangelist, a particularly mischievous camper slipped from his seat and met Christ as his Savior at the altar. When I learned of his death in a car accident only a few weeks later, I thanked God for the hope of the gospel and for Camp Mt. Bethel, where he heard and accepted it.
This summer, I hope you’ll make your own camp memories. You may just change a life along the way (and don’t be surprised if it is your own).
By the way, these days, Chris the “junior preacher” is a missionary to refugees in Southern Spain, and he can still preach circles around me.
About the Columnist:Eric K. Thomsen is managing editor of ONE Magazine.
