My socks were wet. You know the feeling. We were slogging up
a soggy trail that wound up a steep wooded hill. The snow was still visible in
patches, but most of it had melted in the mild spring weather of the past three
days, turning the trails into greasy mud tracks broken by occasional quagmires.
Everyone had slid several times, and a few of our party had mud streaks on
their knees or backside. We were going to be late for lunch. It felt great to
be outside, though. And we were on an adventure.
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| Stronghold Castle, Friday evening |
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| The Secret Chapel, Saturday morning |
Meanwhile, the sun shone outside, almost mockingly. Time
outside in the beautiful weather had been very limited. The exceptions were the
short walks from the castle to the dining hall for meals and the brief, though
quite intense, games of gaga ball in the muddy gaga pit. Saturday night had
been a treat. We had a campfire outside under a lovely canopy of stars. A
late-season Orion stood vigil as we sang camp songs and roasted marshmallows
for s’mores. It seemed at the same time a celebration of our community, a
worship service, and a herald of the arriving spring.
Sunday morning found 3 of the girls talking about an adventure. We had seen a tiny portion
of the camp’s more than 300 acres, and they wanted to explore. I also wanted to
see some of the camp’s secret spots, the places that drip with meaning for camp
participants. Every camp has these spots, and we needed a guide to show us,
someone who felt the significance of the rocks, trees, and ridges in their very
bones. We had two such people. They were former campers and staff members who
were volunteering to help with the confirmation retreat, and they had led
numerous activities, including the campfire the night before. They collectively
had 8 summers of experience working at Stronghold. They were also married to
each other, having met and been engaged at camp. They were the perfect guides
for our little group.
By the time we set off, we had barely 40 minutes before
lunch. We managed to round up several other youth participants who did not want
to participate in a final bout of gaga ball. We first went to the quarry, where
the stone had been harvested to build the Strong family’s vacation home (castle!)
in the first years of the Great Depression, but our adventurers wanted to go
farther from the castle. Our two guides looked at each other, sharing a secret
understanding, and we set off for David’s Tower. That sounded like a
destination worthy of an adventure, so our party of 8 clasped arms and set off
with a step-skip, step skip as we sang, “We’re off to see the Wizard!”
It was a 20-minute hike down a long hill, across a small
creek bed on a wooden bridge, around a bend, and up another hill, where the
tower stood. I walked with the boy who had fallen asleep during the
presentations. He liked to be outside, to hunt and hike. We identified leaves,
animal tracks, and scat along the soggy trail, while the mud slowly dampened
our socks. The girls seemed unimpressed with the coyote scat when we showed it
to them.
Our destination came into view as we crested a hill. It was
not much to look at. I thought that the word tower might indicate something grander at a camp that boasted a
bona fide castle. David’s “Tower” was constructed of drab concrete blocks. It
was perhaps seven feet square and about twelve feet tall. My first impression
was of a 2-story outhouse. I could see the disappointment on the youth’s faces:
We came all this way for this?
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| David's Tower, Sunday noon |
David’s Tower was also the place where our two guides had
been engaged. The adventurers took special note of this tidbit. Of all the
places he could have proposed on camp, including castle towers, secret chapels,
and gorgeous retreat centers, he chose David’s Tower. We were in a special
place, a place dripping with meaning, and they had shared it with us.
We could not linger, though. Lunch started in 5 minutes, and
we had a 20-minute hike in front of us. As we slid our way back down the hill,
I considered the confirmation retreat. The youth had heard hours of
presentations on doctrine, history, and polity, but something told me they
would remember our adventure more
than the Chalcedonian formula and David Strong more than Jonathan Edwards. I
considered David Strong and the loved ones who finished his tower before entrusting
it to the church. Would the young people walking beside me continue the work of
the church? Would they find meaning
in their faith and pass it on to a generation yet unborn?
I remembered the trivia game of the previous day. None of them
knew the correct answer for the term that characterizes the Presbyterian
understanding of what begins when the worship service ends. Through their
experience at the retreat, they played together and prayed together. They
cooperated in group activities, stood in collective wonder at the stars in the
heavens, helped one another down the muddy slopes on our hike, and encouraged
the one who was visibly nervous about climbing the rickety ladder to David’s
Tower. They may or may not have learned the term, but they went home with an
experience of true worship.
