“Struggle Central” Excerpt #4: Camp Ridgecrest Reignites the Struggle

Once again, it’s time for a sneak peak at my soon-to-be-published book, Struggle Central: Quarter-Life Confessions of a Messed Up Christian. If you’ve missed any of my other excerpts, check out my struggles on shame in high school, loneliness at church, and my first harrowing steps into my current church community in California.

Today’s Struggle Sunday excerpt takes me back almost a year to my first day at Camp Ridgecrest. Such a memorable moment.

And by memorable, I mean desperately nightmarish.

Ridgecrest.

The green road sign materialized the vision, the application, the job acceptance, even the colossal road trip itself. Made the reason behind my last two weeks on the road so very real. All I could wonder as I exited the highway:

What was I doing?

The camp emails for Staff Week said to arrive before dinner at 5:30 that evening, and after booking it down the east coast from Philadelphia that morning – with an unintended pit stop on the D.C. beltway – I pulled through camp’s ominous gate pushing 5:45. Eased down a solitary road and parked, my engine hushing as my heart puttered amid the silence. I looked out my window – saw the exact lake I’d envisioned many months ago, bordered by tree-laden mountains. The same image I’d seen on my computer screen was now visible before my very eyes after driving four thousand mind-bending miles.

I was actually here.

Nine months ago, this job, this place, this mission had seemed right. So very right for my life, my story, my growth. The same inherent right one asserts while getting cavities filled, despite one’s mouth being invaded by fist and drill. Awkward and awful though it may be, still, it’s right.

But if this magical camp with mountains and a lake had been right eight months ago, was it still right now?

Sitting alone in my car, my heart throbbed with emotional cavities aplenty. I was ultimately here for the kids, but I was here for me, too. To heal and change and grow. Figured twelve whole days of training would be more than enough time to adequately fix the “me” part before I even thought about effectively ministering to dozens of kids that summer.

But what if I couldn’t? What if I wouldn’t so easily fix?

I climbed out of my car not at all wanting to. Heard a cacophony of masculine chatter from what must have been the dining hall next door. I bypassed that option and investigated the nearby lake lodge – found the offices empty. Everyone must have been eating.

I was late, after all.

I eyed the dining hall with a tremble and paced myself forward. I climbed one, two, three steps up the porch and opened the rickety door. My tardy, unidentified figure was instantly met by eyes lining rows upon rows of long wooden tables. Eyes which looked up from already begun meals and already engaged conversations – masculine eyes, each and every one. I stood frozen at the door, deluged by indecision.

They’d never met me, didn’t know me, and yet they did. Did know me. Knew everything. Spotted the weird acne-ridden new kid from seventh grade. Saw the fear in his eyes, the shame in his steps. The boy I thought I used to be but had then become all over again.

Before opening the door of that dining hall, this crazy camp fantasy had been just that: a crazy camp fantasy. A wild thought that made a lot of sense for my story but practically didn’t. But now, I stood officially beyond the fantasy stage. I’d opened a rickety reducing door and effectively stepped into crazy camp reality.

My first book is technically already out! Just sign up for my newsletter for your own free PDF copy. And be on the lookout for Struggle Central to hit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online retailers soon!