Letter to a Camp Counselor:

You don’t know me yet, but you will know me. At the beginning of the week I’ll just be a shy, sandy-haired boy

with freckles on his face and a runny nose. I’ll be one of many boys and girls, wearing flip-flops and shorts, who

come trooping into the camp office with my sleeping bag and pillow and ten dollars for the trading post. The

only difference between me and the other boys is that my name is on your list. Because you’re my camp

counselor.

As you grab my suitcase—too heavy for me to carry, stuffed with clothes my mom packed and that I’ll never

bother to change into—you wonder what kind of a camper I’m going to be. Will I listen to devotions and will I

go to sleep without talking too late? Or will I get homesick and try to get you to let me call my parents every

night? And as I walk with you for the first time down the gravel-paved hill to the boy’s dorm, I wonder what

kind of a camp counselor you’re going to be. Will this big guy, twice my age, pay attention to me and will he

think I’m cool? Or will he treat me like a jerk the way my big brother does?

When my car drove down the road toward the big wooden entrance sign, all I knew was that this was summer

camp and I was supposed to have fun here. What never crossed my mind is that the next time I drive down that

road, I will be a different person. I won’t leave this camp without taking something with me. What I do take is up

to you.

Maybe you don’t realize it, but you have, in one week, the potential to alter the course of eternity for me. You

have the opportunity to make a friend for life; but more importantly, you have the opportunity to introduce me to

someone I need even more than I need you. You can’t see inside my heart; you don’t know the hurts I have

stored deep in the secret part of my self. You haven’t lived in the house I live in; you don’t know the people I

know. You haven’t felt the desperate longing in my soul. But, for this week only, you have a chance to find out.

Your best friend knows what I really need, and with His help, you can know, too.

It doesn’t take much to make me like you. All you have to do is pay attention to me during lunch instead of the

pretty girl counselor at the table next to you. All you have to do is put the worm on my hook so I can catch a big

fish to brag about. All you have to do is give me a piggyback ride to the chapel. All you have to do is laugh at the

third dumb joke I’ve told in a row. All you have to do is take me canoeing or give me a high-five for getting

fourth place or help me find my lost shoe. Really, all I want you to do is love me.

I’m not stupid; if you don’t care about me or if you think I’m a pain, I’ll know, and no carefully-planned

messages for the salvation of my soul will fool me into thinking otherwise. But if you really love me—enough

not to yell at me when I leave my soaking swimsuit on your bed or forget to brush my teeth for half the week—

then I’ll be ready to listen when you talk to me about a God who loves me when I don’t deserve it, because I’ve

already seen you do it.

When the week is over, this sandy-haired, freckle-faced kid will pack up his sleeping bag and pillow once more

and head back to his car. I won’t be able to wait to tell my parents all the stories of the week. How I passed the

swim test and won the burlap sack race and that the puppet show was funny and that one of the girl campers

thinks I’m cute. But, depending on you, I might have another story to tell—about one day on the front porch of

the dining hall, or one evening after devotions, or the last night down at the campfire by the lake. About how I

got down on my skinned-up knees and folded my grimy hands and, with your arm around my shoulder, asked

out loud in my childish voice for Jesus to come into my heart and save me from my sins.

I don’t know it now, but that one moment is what I came to camp for. That one moment will change my life

forever. That one moment is in your hands… because you’re my camp counselor.