Two Kinds of Suffering

In reading Terry Tempest Williams' Refuge, I came across something very interesting: "Buddha says there are two kinds of suffering: the kind that leads to more suffering and the kind that brings an end to suffering." Later she concludes the chapter with this: "Dying doesn't cause suffering. Resistance to dying does." To me those words struck home and caused a realization about my connection to camp. To be honest, I am scared to right this down, I'm going to reveal some things here that are painful to me even today, and that others may not want to know.

When my mother turned fifty in 2006, she had what is known in urban legends as the midlife crisis. She packed us up and moved us to Maine. I was not at all pleased with this decision but had no choice. At first I was hopeful that a family member would let me live with them, at least until I graduated high school, but I don't think I was brave enough to voice this opinion except to my friends at school. The next thing I know my parents are receiving emails from realtors and going to Maine on weekends to look at houses. If I had a long weekend from school I would go with them and walk around cold, crumbling brick capes on top of windy hills, and run down white farm houses. When my parents asked my opinion I would simply say "there's no free water" or "there's too much wind". I never voiced the hurtful opinion "we have no money. Why would you buy a house you can't fix?" and "why do I have to move?"

Finally we found a house. Mom and I went to see it with the realtor and we were surprised. It was a newer house, about eight years old then, an "A" frame with antlers and sticks for door handles. The metal roof allowed even the softest snow flakes to be heard when falling. Six acres sloped down in a narrow rectangle to a fresh water marsh where moose were a guaranteed sighting, and a workshop where the previous owner made boats would be perfect for Dad's puttering. The price was right and the residents would be moved out in eight weeks. Mom and Dad put an offer in and bought it.

The bedrooms were small, a little girl having used one and a baby boy in the other. I chose the little girl's room with the teal walls and plastic flower border. Every night I sat in that room and cried. I had a picture of Josh and Gunner tacked to the wall next to my bed. Why me? I cried and screamed in my head. Why me? The tradition lasted for about two years easily. I learned to cry with no sound, letting the tears run down my face my nose stuff up. Before dinner I would check in the mirror above my dresser, making sure my face was presentable; I allowed no red rimmed eyes or sticky lashes.

After the two year mark, I took down the picture and put it in a photo album on a shelf above my bed. I painted the room in pink earth tones and began to tack up magazine clippings of animals and guns. I met a young man at our new church and we began dating, I even made some new friends from the church and gained some of his. I graduated from the State of Maine in 2008, alone in a class of five strangers while my friends in CT graduated together. Soon I was accepted at Unity college, while my boyfriend joined the Navy and went to boot camp two weeks before I left for school.

I managed to go back to CT during camp meeting week in 2009 to work as a dishwasher in the dining hall. As I drove through the gate and saw the speed limit sign "slow caution children" I was attacked with memories as if those moments were being relived. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. Tears that hadn't been there since I took the picture down from my wall three hundred miles away in a gray, sunless prison about the size of a walk in closet. I drove down the same dirt road I had ridden a purple bicycle on with no hands. The same road I walked Gunner on in the evenings with my parents. I parked in front of the same cottage my grandparents have always stayed in for two weeks of the summer. I dried my eyes checking for the evil red rims and the sticky lashes. I found no sign of them. I gave myself a mental slap on the back, oddly proud for retaining my secret crying skills. I greeted my grandparents and carried my bags upstairs. I sat on the bed and began to unpack.

Leaving ten days later I cried again. This time I had six hours to recover before I needed to be composed. The tears were different this time. Loud, soaking my face, spit flying out of my mouth as I tried to stay on the highway.

In January of 2010, I promised I would come back and be the dishwasher again. I never made it. On my way to CT this summer I made a phone call to a close friend who gave me excellent advice. "If you don't want to do it. Don't." And I didn't.

The professional decision is one I will always regret, but the personal decision has allowed me to stop resisting. To stop holding on to something I can't have right now. I had refused to accept my life in Maine because I didn't want to be there. I still wanted to live at camp with my friends, family and freedom. I pulled the car over and called my fiance from Kennebunkport, telling him I was coming home. I turned around and cried the same tears I had a year ago; loud, soaking my face, spit flying out of my mouth as I tried to stay on the highway. 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.

I'm not happy that it all happened, but it did, and a lot of good came from it all. My parents are still married, I have grown a stronger person, and have gained a lot of knowledge. Camp Bethel hasn't actually died, it's still thriving every summer and I still have my memories. I'm jealous of what people get to experience when I am not there, but I think I know the next time I am there even more fantastic memories will be made. I bear no more suffering because I allowed myself to stop resisting. I am simply excited for the next time I am able to go to camp, be it tomorrow or fifty years from now.

Salmon River

The Connecticut River Valley is home to many marsh species such as snapping turtles, cormorants, mute swans and bass. I have seen all of these species numerous times, from the banks of the river or from a dark green old town canoe.

Picture: Last set of steps down to the river

The Salmon River which flows into the Connecticut River is one the most serene waterways I have ever had the pleasure to paddle, especially in the good company of "the boys" and my father. Sometimes my mother would come out with us, but it was rare. Crossing the large section of channel to get to the mouth of the Salmon River, daring the motor boats and tugs to hit us, was not her thing. On windy days there were easily one foot waves attempting to flip us. Sitting in the bow I always raised my paddle high and pretended I was riding a roller coaster (since I am scared of the real ones at carnivals).

I remember the land marks well, there were several large houses that housed the wealthy views of the river, one always had several yellow labs on the deck that would bark as we flowed by. The peaceful bends and turns always reminded me of the song Pocahontas sings in the Disney movie, and the fishing and swimming were great! Of course, we often got lost and would not make back to camp in time for bible study on some days. Luckily there were never any real consequences, unless dinner was cold. The four of us explored miles of that river, sometimes going to the same place twice, racing each other in the rain and sun.

Other times we would paddle in opposite direction, down the Connecticut River. We would go under the swing bridge (left) careful not to get too close to the pillars, otherwise we would get sucked into large whirlpools. It was always harrowing. The fun part was that you could look up through the grating and see the undercarriages of the cars passing over head, as long as you didn't get a pebble in your eye. I remember watching many barges, both loaded and unloaded come through the bridge at certain times of days from the oil plant upriver in Middletown. Often there were sailboats hanging out waiting for the bridge to open at the allotted times. The binoculars in my grandparent's cottage were well used.

This was my second introduction to the water, my first having been many years earlier about twenty miles down the road in the next town. This introduction taught me about the nature in the water and the different moods water can have. I'm glad it happened because it prepared me for some of the outdoor activities at Unity College.

Tueday Nights

I have a lot of "adopted" family members. When I say adopted I mean that there are some very good friends out there who my parents and I pretty much consider loved ones. Two of these people are brothers Joshua and Benjamin James. These young men came into my life when I was about thirteen, and I will never forget them. Their parents live in Florida, so during the off summer months "the boys" (as we called them and everyone knew them), who were now old enough to be living on their own, would spend their winters in New England as well.

Picture: Josh (left) Ben (right) and little sister Shae (middle)

The way Camp Bethel works, everybody watches everyone 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. Mom has more or less watched all the kids my age from camp grow up. She also watched Ben and Josh become mature, well rounded young men. So during the years we lived at camp Mom and Dad decided to make Tuesday nights "Boys Nights".

Every Tuesday Ben and Josh would come over for dinner around six, be it summer or winter; we would move the kitchen table out from against the wall and drag the two extra chairs from storage. While we waited for dinner to be served, or during desert we would play poker (with monopoly money; although I will admit dealer's choice became pretty cut throat). I learned a lot during those dinners; about the boys, the camp ground, and our religion. Those dinners were one of the hugest influences on me as a teenager and now as a young adult. Ben and Josh did other things with us as well, they even came to Maine with us for a vacation once.

During those days I noticed something different about my parents. Having the boys around seemed to make my father a younger person and my mother more light hearted. They are still in our lives, but in a more distant way that I know we all regret. However there are many moments I will never forget; one of them stands out in my mind and because of it I will always wear a skirt to church!

Best Friend and Sister

Riding bicycles around the 2.5 miles of dirt road at Camp Bethel was one of our favorite activities as kids. We probably put about a million miles on those bikes until we grew out of them and got larger ones again and again. The roads at camp are actually just one large loop road from the main entrance with two dead end side roads.

I think there were usually about six of us at the time who were old enough to ride our bikes around and play "bike tag" or to just race. Hannah Watkins and I were riding out bikes with the three boys when Jenny came out to join us. We must have been trying to out ride Jenny because at that time we never played with her. At one point when we thought we had lost her we found Jenny sitting on an old log near the swing set in tears.
Hannah and I stopped in front of her and asked her what was wrong.
"You guys NEVER play with me! And I have no friends." She sobbed.
Hannah and I looked at each other and back at Jenny. I don't remember who spoke up first, but either Hannah or I said that we promised to play with Jenny and to be her friend from then on.

Its been about eleven years since that day and we are still friends with Jenny. For the five years I lived at camp, every summer when the Marches moved in, I never left Jenny's side. We swam together, played cards and with our beanie babies, rode bikes together, walked together, ate together (she makes the BEST grilled cheese sandwich ever!), painted our nails together, read together, dance and sang together, and so much more. We wrote letters to each other during the winter months and convinced her mom to bring her and her brothers to camp to go sledding.

We still keep in touch and soon she is coming to Maine to visit friends and I plan on seeing her ASAP when she gets here. I have always considered her my sister and always will, no matter how far apart we will geographically be (even if one of us ends up in Greece and writes to the other in Greek!)

I Love you Jenny

Conference

Today I had my conference with Kathryn Miles, the teacher for the Seminar: Writing for Publication course. She was a great help and gave me tons of awesome advice. I have been struggling with this project because of the many elements I want to include in the essay, and I also have been having trouble trying to decide what to do for a presentation to teach the class about my topic.

Kate suggested several good books for reading Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams and Here if You Need Me by Kate Braestrup. I definitely look forward to reading these two books especially because Refuge is going to be a great example for the kind of paper I want to write. I stressed to Kate that the really hard part of this paper is going to be writing the braid on religion. I am not entirely sure how I am going to do that or what my focus will be, whether it is a general focus or more specific to one or two aspects of religion.

First Kate advised me to bust out only the personal narrative part of the paper almost like a reflection piece, and then later we will meet again and figure out where to put the other braids. So I am going to take her advice and try to write something on this blog either every day or every other day until our meeting next Wednesday the tenth. These posts will most likely be memories or something that I can copy and paste directly into my paper or may not use at all.

Second Kate gave me an idea for the facilitation (or presentation) of my project. Because I understand the concept of the braided personal narrative, I could easily lead the class in a discussion on this type of writing. It is suggested that after I write the personal narrative part of my paper, I write the other braids separately and bring them to class. First I will probably teach the class how a braided essay works, and then breaking the class up into groups I might have them put the braids together. That way I can choose to use some of the classes suggestions or not. I think its a very sneaky idea......

Camp Bethel on the Internet!

Camp Bethel now has a website! To view click here.

What Camp Bethel Has Meant to Me

By Al Everett

When you come face to face with your mortality, staring at the ceiling of a hospital room, your whole life is open to self examination. I got to this place because I went to give blood. Pat and I had been on mission teams to Guyana, South America for several years. Guyana is one of those countries on the Red Cross list that causes you to wait one year after your return to give blood. It had been a year when there was a Red Cross Blood Drive at our church and I went to give my share. I had been a regular donor, having given nearly three gallons in my lifetime. Well, when they did the hemoglobin test this time before giving, I failed the test. My doctor ran another series of tests and sent me to a Hematologist/Oncologist who diagnosed me with Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS), an incurable blood disease that caused my red cell, white cell and hemoglobin levels to be quite below normal. The MDS morphed into Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). The Duke University Medical Center Bone Marrow Transplant doctors were willing to undertake my case as I was otherwise a healthy person. I first entered the Medical Center for treatment on May 12, 2009, and was there in the hospital and clinic off and on through January 2010. At one point, the charts on MDS and AML showed I had about four months to live. The doctors first had to get my AML into remission before finally considering me as a Bone Marrow Transplant patient. Fortunately, that occurred in July and a donor search was undertaken to find a donor. That occurred in August, and I got my Bone Marrow Transplant on October 13, 2009.

As I write this it has been 235 days since my transplant, and it looks like it is going to be successful, although it will be a lifestyle change to resist all the bad things that could happen if I don’t take the meds and stay out of the sun. The chemo I took was a very rough experience, causing fever spikes, blood pressure spikes, disorientation, overall body weakness, and a general feeling of blah.

When you come face to face with your mortality, life is open to self examination.

A month after the transplant I had a heart attack. It was categorized as a “widow maker” attack because two thirds of men do not survive it. Fortunately I was in the Duke Medical Center at the time, and was taken down one floor to the medical ICU. A gathering of doctors of all sorts of expertise were there when I awoke from the experience. Tests showed one artery was totally blocked, although my system had formed a totally new artery bypass. Two other arteries were partially blocked, but not requiring a stent or other heart surgery. The totally blocked artery meant that I had a previous heart attack that I was unaware of. The miracle was that my system made its own bypass!

This little background gives you an idea of the seriousness of my situation and why I had time for self examination of my mortality and the lifestyle I had been living.

I had surgery in June 1992 to fix a herniated disk in my back, caused by too heavy lifting of wall board on a mission trip to South Carolina in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo. As I was recuperating at home before going back to work, Bob and Mabel Frost had invited Pat and me to attend Camp Bethel that summer. They were on the mission trip with us that year and knew of the pain I had suffered. We stayed in Bethel Hall, had breakfast and lunch at the Frost Cottage, and dinner in the dining hall. The Bible Study that year on the Beatitudes was one of the richest Bible Studies I had ever participated in. We sang in the choir and enjoyed the music under the direction of Jim Marshall. I don’t remember most of the Vesper Services as the whole experience of being high on the shores of the Connecticut River was overwhelming. I believe the closing sermon that year was entitled “Honey, We Forgot to Tell the Kids”. For several years later, I took the notes from that year’s Bible study and used it in several church settings. I also witnessed that “if we forgot to tell the kids”, we were only a generation away from their knowing God and being assured of salvation through Jesus Christ. I have heard many sermons at all sorts of churches in our travels, but that is the only sermon that has stayed with me and one that I often get a chance to witness about.

When we got home after that first Camp Meeting we asked ourselves, “What just happened to us?” Were we dreaming it or did it actually occur? We knew we had to go back another year and see if it all was a mirage, or if it was the most spiritually rewarding experience we had ever had. The second time at Camp week showed it was the real thing. We met some wonderful people, got to share many faith stories, continued to be impressed by the richness of the Bible Study and the music. Jim Marshall seemed to enjoy getting the most out of the ones who showed up and it was exhilarating.

In the years since, we were privileged to be Program Chairs and Mission Chairs, and became members after a moratorium was lifted one year. We experienced Connecticut River trips, swimming at a nearby State park, looks at mansions on the Long Island Sound, listening to wonderful musical guests, and great evening speakers. A Baptist preacher introduced us to Galatians 5:6; “The most important thing is expressing your faith through love.”

We have “graduated” to the RV Park and do not stay in Bethel Hall anymore, but the whole Camp Bethel experience has remained faithful over the years. One year we even ran into one of the preachers who taught us to sing from the Brown Covered Hymn Book at a restaurant on Prince Edward Island in the Canadian Maritimes. At another time we ran in to the Pump House Host and Hostess in Mexico at EPCOT Center in Disney World! We have also spent some time in mission doing repairs, etc. at the New Life Community Church in Jacksonville, Florida.

In two trips to the Holy Land with Camp Bethelites, we had a further chance to cement friendships made at Camp while exploring the many venues where the stories in the Bible more than likely took place. We studied and prayed at many of the same places we “explored” in our Camp Bethel Bible Studies.

I don’t mean to say that Camp Bethel is perfect. It is an organization run by humans who have biases and different interpretations of what it means to be a Christian, or how to act as a Christian. My prayer is that it will continue to speak to a variety of people seeking God and the purpose He has for their lives. Camp has been a blessing to Pat and me, and I am humbled by the thoughts and prayers that our Camp Bethel friends have shown us as we recover from this Bone Marrow Transplant experience.

May God continue to show His Grace on Camp Bethel, and may Camp Bethel continue to be a spiritually rewarding place where Christians can come to learn that “the important thing is expressing our faith through love,” and where “we learn to pass that faith on to our children and grandchildren.” May we, as members, continue to learn what God’s purposes are for our lives. May we also learn to put those lessons to use when we return home to live out the Great Commission to “go and make disciples of all the nations, teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you, knowing that God is with you, even to the end of the age.”