I sucked in huge gulps of air, trying to stall the flow of tears and to make my breathing normal. My hands were sweating as they gripped the steering wheel of my friend’s car. My body shivered with goose bumps as it was attacked by waves of heat and cold. The earpiece emitted a ringing from the other end of the line. “Hello?” My friend answered. “I need your help,” I said as calmly as I could.
I explained the situation, that I was supposed to be washing dishes in roughly 12 hours, and that in six hours I was going to be someplace I didn’t want to be. I told my friend that in January I had promised my boss I would be there for him during the ten day camp meeting that happens annually; ten days when family and friends came together to visit and learn about God with bible studies and church services. We talked for a while; he managed to calm me for the moment and told me "If you don't want to do it. Don't."
It was Friday, July 30, 2010 and I was driving to Connecticut on I95. The next day I was supposed to be washing dishes in a dining hall at a Christian Advent campground called Camp Bethel. It sits on the bank of the Connecticut River, and as you cross the swing bridge from Moodus, you can see the brightly painted cottages smiling down on the water. Rows of cottages line the dirt road that creates one giant loop, a loop that encompasses family and friends. The way camp works, everybody watches everybody else grow up. For example, the founding fathers of camp were the first generation, and now I am the fifth generation of "Bethelites" in my family.
The next call was to my grandmother. I told her I was having car troubles and that I needed my boss to call me as soon as possible because I didn’t have his number. She told me she would go find him and give him the message and my cell phone number. I then called my mother. She was not happy. I told her my dilemma: that I just didn’t want to do it. I already knew that it wasn’t professional or responsible to give such short notice, to back out last minute on a promise I had made months before. My mother reminded me of all this in her patronizing tone. She treated me like a spoiled ten year old and tears spilled down my cheeks. I told her that maybe I was having car problems. She was stubborn, offering to meet me someplace on the highway and give me her car for the trip. I said no I would be fine and told her I would call her from Connecticut.
After we hung up, my phone rang. “Hello?” It was my boss. I told him I was having car troubles and asked if he would be able to find somebody else to wash dishes. He assured me that he could find someone and that if I could not make it that was fine. I apologized profusely and we said goodbye. As soon as I hung up the phone I realized that I had burned a bridge in one of my work relationships. That was ok though. I never wanted to go back to camp to work again.
I got off the next exit and pulled into a commuter parking lot in Kennebunkport. I called my fiancé, telling him I was coming home. I got back on the highway heading north and cried loud, wet tears that soaked my face, spit flying out of my mouth as I tried to stay on the road. However, they had different meaning; it seemed as if a dull throb went away, leaving my head lighter, and quite literally, I felt something heavy leave my shoulders. I was able to sit up straighter and felt no physical weight.
Ten minutes later my phone rang again. I looked at the caller I.D. “Home”. Mom must have found out already. “Your grandfather just called me. He is not pleased with your actions.” I told her I already knew that. But I hadn’t. I had completely forgotten about my grandfather and his feelings. I hadn’t meant to hurt anyone or cut any ties with family and friends, I was simply making a decision that should have happened long ago.
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