In the late 1980s and early 1990s I went to an Episcopal church camp in Northern Wisconsin. It was called Camp Horstick, named after a late bishop, but due to the unfortunate pronunciation of that name, most people called it by the name of the Victorian house on the grounds of the camp: Bundy Hall, or even just “Bundy” for short. My older sisters went there first, and they had so much fun that I counted down the days until I was old enough to go. My mom also went as a volunteer for a few sessions before I was old enough to go, and everyone always seemed to have a great time there. And so, at the tender age of seven (a rising third grader), I packed my bags and off I went to Bundy Hall, the church camp for the Diocese of Eau Claire. Our diocese was known as one of the more Anglo-Catholic dioceses in the “biretta belt” of the Upper Midwest.
Most people who went to an Anglo-Catholic church camp will probably not be surprised by what I’m about to say next. And most people who have never heard of Anglo-Catholic church camp will probably think I’m making this up. We went to church four times every day–before breakfast, before lunch, before dinner, and before bedtime. We sang a table blessing from the Psalms before every meal, too (complete with Thee and Thou). There was a clergy chaplain, but campers participated in the worship service as lay readers, ushers, and musicians. We polished brass plaques with Brasso and toothpicks. There were “best bed” awards for the most neatly-made bed. There were cleaning contests to see who could clean their dorm (really more like barracks) better. Every day. The winner of the cleaning contest got to display a painting of an angel on their dorm for the rest of the day, and the loser had to display a devil. (I’m not kidding.)
The camp was set in the woods, but we weren’t actually allowed to go into the woods, because there was poison ivy. There was a pool, so we could swim, but only after the cleaning and a morning of religious instruction, and between church services. The middle schoolers had the special treat of having the Bishop as our camp chaplain, which meant that if we sang (yes, sang) Compline (the before-bedtime church service) incorrectly or without enough spirit, we had to do it over again. One time, they brought in a missionary from Africa (yes, from Africa) to teach us about God, but he didn’t dance, because he was saving that for heaven when he could dance with Jesus. Another time, a representative from the national church came and argued vehemently with an elderly deacon about what constituted a consensual sex act. They had to take it into the hallway to cool down. One year, an aspiring chef put prunes on the table at every meal.
I’m prone to exaggeration, but I am not fabricating any of these details. I swear on a can of Brasso.
And we loved it. I don’t know if it was like basic training, and we all had a trauma bond, or if our home lives were just that boring. We probably just didn’t know any better. We made lifelong friendships there, and we loved our time there. We experienced the liturgy outside of our home churches. We wrote letters to our camp friends once we were back home. We found a community of believers there, and it was different from our communities at school. Our faith was formed there. The grace of God transcended the ridiculous tasks and schedules, and I’d even say the grace of God was in those ridiculous tasks and schedules, because we did them together, in love. Working together to clean our dwelling spaces, we built our own community, and we loved one another. We still love one another. More than a few fellow campers, my brother included, grew up to marry their camp sweethearts. But beyond that, our friendships and agape love for one another grew and flourished at that camp.
But…surprise! The camp no longer exists. It’s a small wonder that nobody has sued the camp for brass polish inhalation injuries.
And so, I’m preparing to send my very own rising third grader off to a different church camp this summer. I’m willing to bet that there aren’t any brass plaques to polish, and I don’t think anybody is going to make him re-sing Compline like he means it. This morning, we watched the promotional video that the camp produces every year. The video shows campers doing all the camp things–ropes courses, swimming, canoeing, a giant water slide, horse-back riding. He’s going to have so much fun that I can hardly stand it.
The videos also show the community worshipping together, and I found myself crying at the breakfast table as we watched the campers hold hands around the Communion table. I didn’t just tear up–this was a full-on ugly-crying, can’t-swallow-my-toast-or-I’
We’re packing his bags, and checking off the to-do list. Toothbrush, flashlight, jeans for horse-back riding, swimsuit, sunscreen. He’s practicing all of the self-care skills he’ll need–washing his own hair and getting all of the shampoo out, and getting out of a sticky swim shirt by himself. He’s a clergy kid, so he’s comfortable with God talk, but there’s no way that I can describe to him the joy and wonder he’s about to experience, and the friends he’s about to make. I can’t wait to hear about it when he comes home.
COMMENTS
12 responses to “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah (Son, and Holy Ghost, Amen)”
Leave a Reply
Thanks for this!
Also, not to be pedantic (too late!), but the “beretta belt” is a little more dangerous (and probably more fun) than the “biretta belt.”
Thank you – good catch! Clearly, it’s not in my everyday vocabulary, but it has now been fixed. Thanks for catching it!
Rowan rushed up to me exclaiming, “I’m going to Camp Allen by myself!” Good for Rowan and for all the children (and adults) joining in the fun. And bless his big ol’ Texas heart for sharing the good news.
He is so excited, and is always especially excited to share exciting news with his Sunday School teacher! I’m sure you’ll hear all about it when he returns. Thanks for being a part of his life!
Sounds like he is headed to Camp Allen, where I had just such experiences as you remember – the community, not the high church part. 🙂 They have LOTS more cool stuff now then they did then. But the feeling of making a community of faith of your own…incomparable.
Your thoughts and experiences brought tears to my eyes reading your experiences at Bunde Hall .So special! All of what you said will not happen again – at least at BH. I hope your son will be as enriched as you were. Thanks for putting down your experiences. I wonder what kids today would think of the polishing,sweeping, KP,classes,church 4 times a day etc…….
Elaine! It’s so wonderful to hear from you! You made Bundy Hall such a wonderful place. We miss you!
Most refreshing to hear your take on church camp. What a blessing you are to us! My youngest daughter went to Camp Allen in the70. Such a good expierce for kids.
My niece was not raised in a church community. She did however chose to attend a “Young Life” Camp the summer after her freshman year in high school. It changed her life forever. The sense of a genuine caring community of peers was transformative. She has just finished her freshman year of college and she seems to have gravitated to members of christian fellowships. She has reached goals I never thought she would. Summer Camps can be Very Special.
In the early 1960’s, as a young priest I was put in charge of an Anglo-Catholic camp for a midwestern diocese. My only qualification was that I was the youngest and newest priest in the diocese. Some of the other clergy, former Marines themselves, envisioned the role of the camp to imitate that of a Marine boot camp: if there was any acting out on the part of the campers, and if no one confessed to it, the proper response was to make all the campers march, say, a mile, in the dark when they should be sleeping. My main job then, the youngest and newest priest, became that of restraining these older priests from carrying out such dark phantasies on the campers. It was for me a nightmare that I had to struggle to put behind me.
So much for Anglo-Catholic camp.