Fuzzy Theology

There’s a feeling you get at the end of the retreat done well. It’s a feeling of being physically drained but spiritually full. It’s the moment when you’ve emptied yourself out of whatever was holding you back, only to be filled with Christ’s light and love.

And it’s one of the most beautiful feelings I’ve ever experienced.

Needless to say, at the end of our high-adventure camp, I was physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted and I was not feeling anything but gross.

If this is your first time tuning in, check out the beginning of our story by clicking here and find your favorite Saint prayer cards for the bumpy road home.

Facing an 18 (probably more like 22) hour bus ride home after the week we’d all experienced seemed to be adding salt to our wounds – of which we had many. Because while I may have survived the week with a few bumps and many bruises, some of my teens weren’t so lucky. We were all covered in scrapes, cuts, mystery rashes, bruises, bumps, and aches we couldn’t explain.

Not to mention the smell.

Many of us gave up on showering after experiencing what the camp had to offer which left the bus smelling ripe for our journey home. If you want to learn more about those ultra-embarrassing, semi-questionable shower experiences, you can click on over to that story here.

But the smell in the bus mixed with those showering challenges was the reason the adult beside me leaned in close – and sniffed me.

Well, to be specific, not me – my shirt.

Whatever scent beads, fabric softener, dryer sheet combo I’d used on my clothes had lasted the entire trip, leaving the last remaining clean shirt I had smelling freshly laundered. It was a smell we didn’t expect to have on Day Seven and soon a crowd of adults swarmed around me.

This would be a great commercial for any laundry detergent company because in that moment, facing a horribly long bus ride, after an equally long week, I’m sure the adults on my bus would have purchased anything to get their own clothes smelling the same.

It was a moment, we realized how much we’ve been blessed with in this life, and how much of these simple blessings we take for granted.

But that revelation wouldn’t last long as our bus peeled out of the dirt-road parking lot and began its journey down the mountain, back toward our hometown. We faced our next obstacle before we ever left camp property.

You see, the camp we’d stayed at, hidden deep in the mountains in Tennessee, wasn’t built for the traffic of several large charter buses. No, the roads were unpaved, single-lane (if that), curving mountain roads with steep drop-offs on either side. And our bus driver was ready to be rid of us.

The way we flew into those turns will haunt my nightmares forever.

Imagine this:

You’re on a bus filled with teens who are suffering the effects of sibling-bickering on a nuclear level. A week of living in close quarters with so many people, with not having a moment alone, with lack of sleep, strange foods, and wildly uncomfortable chairs, added a level of tension to our trip.

Even still, we settled in for what was sure to be an exhausting bus-ride home. The atmosphere was a mix of quiet conversations, loud screaming, and even louder “hushing” noises.

But one voice rose above the rest.

“LEAN!” the bus driver screamed as our bus careened around one of the hair-pin turns. The wheels of our bus left the ground on one side as the mass of us shifted toward the other side of the bus, hoping our weight would bring them back to the earth. The carriage of the bus groaned, much like we’d been doing, as if one more bump, one more bruise would shatter it.

The wheels connected with the dirt with a thud and the spray of the loose gravel covering the road.

You’d expect this near-catastrophe would be enough for anyone to pump the brakes, but not our bus driver.

He was either fearless or reckless.

Or maybe he’d had about enough of camp because a few seconds later, he was screaming:

“OTHER SIDE!”

And once again the mass of us shifted, throwing our weight to the other side of the bus, praying it was enough to keep us from toppling over and sliding down the side of the mountain.

Remember those Saint prayer cards I told you to get? Well, here’s where they came in handy. Not only for the added weight on the right side of the bus, but the added cover of prayer while we continued to descend the mountain at a speed that would make any racecar driver jealous.

If you haven’t guessed, I’m happy to inform you we all survived the trip down the mountain.

Well – unless you count the bus.

Because the rocking and rolling, the lifting and slamming, had damaged something in the bus’s mechanics, and no sooner had we gotten on the main highway than we realized the air conditioner had died and we were about to add heat exhaustion to the list of ailments we were suffering from.

For the remaining nearly 24 hour ride home, we played a game of leap frog between the two buses to help share the burden. An hour in the heat. An hour of rest. and repeat until our bus finally wobbled its way into the parking and we all spilled out hot, sweaty, stinky, and exhausted.

But we made it.

We survived our high-adventure camp.

I could stop and make a comment here about it not being about the destination – that the journey’s what’s important.

But really more than the destination, more than the journey, more than the bumps and bruises and rashes that faded with time…

It was the lessons we learned and how we let those change our hearts.

My favorite Irish priest used to have a saying we’d repeat during Mass often,

“Grateful people are happy people.”

– Father Eamon Tobin

And when I think about this high-adventure camp retreat experience, or any challenging time in my life, this phrase rings true.

Because in the midst of us being robbed (twice!), battling the rapids without a tour guide, cringing from embarrassing shower encounters, worrying over the health of our priests, and being thrown from the horse, we never lost our spirit of adventure or the sense of humor that saw us through each new challenge.

Yes, we carried around extra-large walking sticks after facing the robbers.

Yes, my eyes were filled with tears as I limped back to camp after being thrown from the horse.

Yes, in the moment, when things seemed dark, there was worry and hopeless and despair.

But in the middle of all of it, there was also light.

A light that shines from the knowledge that God has blessed us as His children. A hope that fills us with peace knowing that He walks with us.

This light. This peace.

They bring a happiness the events of the world cannot touch.

So, no – the trip did not go as we planned.

And yes, the road was long and challenging.

No, I don’t remember the faith-lessons we delivered or the messages the priest spoke about during daily mass. And that’s ok.

Because yes, this retreat changed my heart, filled me with light and love, and left me with the most beautiful stories to share in the hopes they in turn will touch your hearts as well.

“The value of life does not depend on the place we occupy. It depends upon the way we occupy that place.”

– St. Therese of Lisieux

This may be the end of this road and this journey, but don’t worry! There are many more stories for me to share. God has gifted me in abundance and I am looking forward to sharing them with you! I’d love to hear from you! Drop me a comment below or find me on Twitter @FuzzyTheology.

You are in my prayers!