Two weeks
ago, my nine-year old son Dawson and I spent the weekend with eight other dads
and sons from our church. We experienced
Camp McCall, a boys camp in South Carolina sponsored by the South Carolina
Baptist Convention. This trip marked my
fourteenth time at the camp. I attended
seven times as a camper in the 1980’s and have returned seven times as a dad
for their father-son camps.
By the
seventh time, the experience feels routine.
The schedule, the activities, the games, the songs, and yes, the long
hikes uphill stay consistent from year to year.
On every father-son camp I have attended, we always sing “Father Abraham”
at the missions time. The
post-canteen night schedule always consists of campfire one night and night
games in the gym the other. I can finish
most of the jokes that are retold every year.
Though
predictable to me, the experience seems always fresh for my boys. Without exaggeration, I believe Dawson talked
about going to camp every week of the past year since our last time at
McCall. Weekly I hear, “Daddy,
when we go to Camp McCall next year . . . .”
So ten men
and boys left Laurens and drove to Sunset, South Carolina, on a June Saturday
morning. We braved Lake Chiliwater,
played dodge ball, hiked to the Little Waterfall, slept in an old cabin,
showered in a dingy bathhouse, laughed around the campfire, sang songs in chapel,
and quickly emptied our food dishes onto our plates so that we could send a
camper to the front for seconds.
I suppose every
father who goes to camp with his son hopes that memories are made that will far
outlast the reminders of inconveniences like a sore back or lack of sleep.
Two days in
a row, Dawson wanted to go to the Craft Hut.
I preferred swimming at the lake, but agreed to walk to the
hut and help my son make crafts. One
day we purchased a glue-together wooden plane kit for $4.00. It took two free-time periods to sand, paint,
and glue the toy together. Dawson worked
steadily on the project with Dad offering assistance as needed.
On the third day, ten very tired boys and men left camp and returned home, tucking
away another year of camp into our memory banks.
The next
weekend was Father’s Day. Every year I
request that my children make cards for me on Father’s Day. I tape them to the wall of my office and enjoy looking at them.
Dawson’s card was creative. The children poke fun at the fact that
when I am in charge of lunch or supper, we often have pizza. So the card granted me an award for the father
who makes pizza for his children. Dawson
created a prize envelope in the card.
“Daddy, take
out the prize card!”
I did so,
and it read, “Look in the grill.”
For birthday
and Christmas gifts, we sometimes send our children on treasure hunts around the
house and yard. The last clue will
direct them to a spot where their gift is located. So, in like fashion, Dawson directed me.
We walked
outside to the large grill. Dawson,
grinning from ear to ear, exclaimed, “Open it, Daddy!”
Lifting the
top revealed a present roughly wrapped in bright red paper, covered with scotch
tape. Having no clue what was inside, I
tore open the paper. Immediately
recognizing the gift, I fought back tears as Dawson jumped up and down.
The Father’s
Day gift was the painted purple and red plane that we assembled together at
camp. Nothing bought from a store could
have made me feel as good as I did that afternoon. We embraced for a priceless moment, and I sure was
glad we went to camp together.
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