Parenting manual needs camp chapter

When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons to summer camp.

I’m even volunteering to write it.

Chapter 99: Church camp.

Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
 
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.

Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes, periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt. That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get Lucas’ stuff?”

I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs to him.”

With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my 6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls, while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing — inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.

My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish. “Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them wherever they took them off.”

I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve thought.”

Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things rarely make it home from camp.

Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.

That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and flushed after my 6-year-old.

Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.

Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned habits.)

Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine. Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.

“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.

“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.

Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken literally.”

And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end, we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church camp.

Train them up ...

Tiny too early Jacob laid motionless in an incubator, tubes and wires protruding from his weak little body while I waited for a miracle. I dropped to my knees and begged God for his mercy. I cried out for his help, tears dripping from my chin.

I was barely 22 years old. Jacob was a day old. My first son, the one who came as a surprise, needed a miracle to survive. Barely had I gotten used to being a mother and I feared I'd lose my first chance.

My miracle came. Jacob rebounded with zeal. Twelve days later, he was released from intensive care, and I brought him home. Twelve years later, he doesn't have a single lasting effect from those tumultuous first moments.

I knew his recovery was nothing short of God's grace. I knew he was going to be special.

An infant, Jacob would lay on his changing table. For minutes at a time, he'd stare at the ceiling smiling and cooing at nothing I could see. I had faith he was seeing more than my adult mind could wrap itself around.

A kindergartner, Jacob was in class with a girl who was growing up in a home that embraced atheism. During lunch one day, she announced that she did not believe in God. Jacob looked at her and said, "It doesn't matter if you don't believe in God because he still loves you." Evangelism from a 6-year-old comes straight from a heart inspired by God.

Through the years, we've attended church regularly. Jacob was baptized as a toddler, along with his father and infant brother. That was 2003. He has attended vacation Bible school, church camp and Sunday school. We don't push religion, and I certainly wouldn't label our family as overly religious. We believe, attend church and try to live a good life, but at the same time, we tend to remain private about our beliefs.

This year, Jacob told me he was thinking seriously about being baptized. We discussed it, and I told him it was a choice between himself and God and he should express his desire to the youth minister at church. And as only Jacob could put it, he told me, "Well, mom, I know I was baptized before, but that time, I was just sprinkled, and I think it's going to take more holy water than that."

Nothing else came out of that conversation.

Tonight, I was at a parent meeting for football when I missed a phone call from a Salem number. No one left a message, but I felt a pull to call back the number. Not even thinking, I dialed the number to hear, "Wonder Valley Church Camp." Jacob is at Wonder Valley now attending church camp. My stomach turned. I explained who I was, that I missed a call and that my son was in camp. I called his father next, who also received a missed call from that number. We started to get worried when the number beeped in again. The man on the other end said, "Mrs. Shetler, this is Jeff Prince at Wonder Valley. No one is hurt, injured, sick and nothing is broken, but your son Jacob is next to me and he wants to speak to you." My next thought was that he was homesick. Jacob got on the line and said:

"Mom, I've decided to accept Christ as my Lord and Savior. I've read and studied the scripture, and this is what I want to do. I'm going to be baptized Friday."

Tears of joy couldn't be contained ... I cried and cried some more. Adrenaline pumping through my body at the first thought that he was hurt mixed with feelings of pride and joy. Jacob asked, "Are you crying?" "Yes," I replied. "I am so unbelievably proud of you buddy."

I don't know any other feeling greater than knowing that your son, the one person you love more than life itself, will find eternal life through Jesus. But I shouldn't be surprised. It's been obvious since the beginning that God had a plan for this little guy and has been working on him ever since.

Tonight, I praise God for saving my son, then and now.