Pilgrim Point Part 2: Teenage Hubris

I attended Pilgrim Point Camp for one week every summer from 6th through 12th grade.  Camps were divided by age group with the last group being senior high.  Once you graduated high school, that was it for camp.  (There are family camps, weekend retreats, etc., but senior high was the last full week camp experience.)  Because so many kids attended year after year, and because a lot of us loved that place like no other, it was tradition that graduating seniors were allowed to say good-bye at the last evening's vespers.

The camp lays on a point into Lake Ida (hence the name).  There are thousands of linear feet of beach; thank god the church is tax-exempt.  At the end of point is a quaint seating area with a simple fire pit, altar and cross.  It's called vespers' point.  Every night of camp, the lot gathers for a brief worship.  Weather permitting, the service is held at the point.  It can be a wonderfully moving experience.  When the weather isn't nice, vespers is held inside the rec hall.  The intention is there, but indoor vespers doesn't have the same sway.

When I was a senior, there were six of us; we were a tight-knit group.  We loved each other, and we were proud of the camp we felt we owned.  I knew (we all did) that it was our last week to be together.  Graduating was full of lasts, and camp was no exception.  Our little gang would probably never be in the same place together again, and we wanted to carry on the tradition of saying good-bye.

That last day, though, the weather was dreadful.  It never fully rained, but it was miserably damp.  As the evening approached, the camp director wanted to move vespers inside.  As a group of six, though, we insisted that our vespers be where it belonged: outside, on the point.  The director agreed, but informed us that if the weather got any worse, the service would move inside.

Senior good-byes always come at the end of the service.  What was a drizzle turned into a light rain.  It was our turn, though, to give our speeches, and the gang gathered behind the cross just up the beach a few paces.  We huddled together, and we prayed.  The rain started to fall a bit harder.  I knew they were about to move us inside, so I did the only thing I could think of.  I looked up at the sky, and I informed God that if He didn't stop the rain, I'd come up there and I'd kick his ass.  Only a teenager who felt like he owned the world would have the gall to do something like that, and even then, I knew I was being reckless.

But in that moment, a circle of clouds opened up, shining the stars down on the point.  All of us were able to say our peace without a drop of rain.  I went last (of course).  When I finished telling everyone how much that place meant to me, and how it was sacred, to be cherished, the clouds came back and it started to rain again.  My hubris apparently bought us just enough time to find the closure we were looking for...