I hate camping. As a kid, summer camp was never mentioned. Never ever. And I didn’t want to go…until I hit retirement. Like many who are facing their “golden years” (a preferable alternative to “the final chapter”), I consider: What is my legacy? What difference have I made? Even better: What new thing am I willing to learn?
A few months after my husband and I moved to the Philly area to be near family, I signed up to volunteer at Camp Hope for Kids (CHFK) in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania. I remember that my fellow golden-years friend Linda Brumley traveled cross-county and volunteered here, connecting with the campers, inspiring the other volunteers and even running the zip line! “This is one of the best leadership-development programs in our brotherhood,” she was heard to say. Watch and learn, I told my reluctant camper-self!
This camp had its humble beginnings on a rented farm in Culpepper, Virginia, with 40 campers in 1995. Relocating three years later to a new campsite, campers had to sleep in canvas Army-style tents; bowling lanes were rented for group activities. It may sound like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants origin story, but “Camp Hope for Kids was and continues to be a work of God through faith,” said Kim Evans, the camp founder, CEO and visionary. Like most good ideas, Kim’s passion was born from her own powerful experiences as a child at camp – and as a parent facing the youth ministry desert at her local church. Despite calamities, catastrophes and the near-collapse of camp funding in 2003, CHFK eventually re-grouped and migrated in 2006 to 88-acres on an exceptionally scenic patch in rural Pennsylvania.
For my first camp experience, I chose the kitchen crew. I am no stranger to volunteering, but I found that a week at camp uniquely schools the heart and stretches faith: contentment without air-conditioning; camaraderie while cleaning and chopping chicken thighs alongside a non-complaining crew. These ridiculously young-looking chefs successfully guided our crew to dish up sustenance to over 150 elementary-aged kids – picky eaters and all. And the food was good! During good news sharing, several campers commented that lunch was the highlight of their day. “Yay!” said the grandma in me.
I’m curious: why did my seven other cabin-mates come to camp? Carolina, a single mother, traveled six hours with her two kids and their three friends (count: five kids in a compact car). Two mature women took time off from work – none of their children or grandchildren were at camp – and drove over six hours. One woman whose kids are no longer campers brought her young nephew, knowing that it will make a difference in his life. Two of the women are married to men who do not follow Jesus, one driving over seven hours to camp. Only Carolina and I are newbies; the other six are veterans, coming back each year to these non-resort-like accommodations during heat dome days. They tell me that they come because serving synchronizes an old heart to “see” God moving in these young hearts. In this setting they witness spiritual formation – in kids and adults – right before their very eyes. Now I understand why they keep coming back. They don’t want to miss out. Camp has become an integral part of their continuing education, an annual deep-dive into living out the serving heart of Jesus.
So, if the Lord wills, I will return next year to sing silly camp songs, to curate a clandestine cabin raid, to prep three-meals-a-day of real food alongside selfless volunteers. And here’s the thing: I am a happy camper.
Check out Camp Hope for Kids. In all, approximately 2000 people are served during the camp season.
