The ponds reflection

I don't like camping. The bed is never comfortable. The food is good,but the timing is never quite right. You are at the mercy of the elements; the coldest I have ever been was a camping trip with insufficient blankets. When you pack it takes more space for one day camping than a week going anywhere else. In addition to all of this inconvenience it is with out many if the technologies I have come to adore.

This weekend I went camping at the farm, which given what I have just written, might lead you to believe I did not have a good time. I could add that we had an incredible storm, turning the weather cool and packing was perhaps the most frustrating thing I have done in a while, and I suspect you would think you knew how my trip went. You would be wrong. I still don't like any of those things, and they were part of this weekend, but they didn't determine how my weekend went.

This year, the farm was full of surprises for me. Two of them stand out with a certain clarity, reminding me why that hassle can be worthwhile. Just a couple of the reasons that, in spite of my reservations, I enjoyed the camping experience this year.

The first was witnessing the beauty that is created when friends and family are drawn together by sorrow. This is the first year Uncle Pat, the man who owns the farm and is the hub around which the friends and family there revolve, was missing. He has a very rough battle with a stroke and was still recovering in the hospital. The have been and are still days when we wonder if he will come home. His absence and the severity of his illness was pronounced there in a clear and painful way. This isn't where we dwelled though, we wrapped that loss with bond brought on by collective grieving. Reveled in keeping his euchre tournament and ridiculous claims about the farm alive. Talked about the things he would have said or done, had he been there. We looked forward to his return. We made an enormous fire and roasted marshmallows, just like he would have wanted, pausing to hear a piece written by his granddaughter, Ashley, about him. When he couldn't be there in body, we came together to bring him there in spirit. You can't experience this and not be moved.

The second event, while smaller than the first, was a reminder of what can be gained in those moments with each other. This year, as a result of shuffling campsites around, we ended up separated by a little bit from most of the family. We have a beautiful pond side location, so you won't hear me complain and this location came with some new neighbors. Our tent was beside Doug and Marty, a couple who have been coming up there since before I was ever around. Over the years I have had passing conversations with them, would consider them friends, but only by the scantest of terms. It would be more accurate to say we were friendly to each other. My wife really was the one who knew and liked them. This year I had moments to really sit and talk to these two, both separately and together. To dig past the immediate and talk about church and family, about past experiences and aspirations. This year, I really enjoyed my time with them. This year, I wondered why it took me so long to really get to know them. This year, camping was about making new friends.

My mistake has been that I have equated camping with the work and bad sleep and the weather, but that really misses the point. It's no wonder I have never liked camping. At it's heart, camping is about connecting with people. When you lose the trappings of "normal" life, you create gaps for loved ones, both new and old, to squeeze into.

Now, don't expect me to become an every weekend camper. There are still many things that make it a struggle. Next year, though, I promise to complain a lot less because I hope to see Uncle Pat, Doug and Marty, and who knows maybe make a new friend.