When I was 17 years old, I was the Director of a Fine Arts Camp at Silver Lake, NY. All the teenagers who attended were from the Methodist Youth Fellowship, or friends of MYFers. I had planned and organized and made charts and phone calls for days ahead of time. I had collected the Registrations of 20 youth, not knowing one of them. I packed my suitcase with clothes one week ahead of time. I packed the other suitcase full of books and paintings and records up to the very last minute before my Mom drove me from Rushford, NY. I was so ready that I could barely contain myself.
Upon arrival after settling my personal stuff in the dorm room and the bottom bunk bed, and all my audio-visuals in the large meeting room with the fire-place; I set up the area for check-in and coordinated the campers who were assigned to kitchen duty to prepare the first supper meal.
The first 3 days sped by with group activities, speakers, reading, singing, and making camp-fires out- doors. I discovered TS Eliot, psalms, choral reading, meditation. I was enthralled with all of it. I stayed up later than everyone else every single night, either talking with or confiding in my peers.
On the last night, having conducted the Tradition of Floating Lighted Candles on the Lake, I was on a complete non-drug high. When we launched our candles in little paper boats, we included prayers for our hopes and dreams for the future. In addition to singing and praying, I recall a great deal of crying, especially on the part of the girls.
I had finally gotten back to the Log House, and realized that I had left the opening worship bulletin for tomorrow up at Epworth House. So, I trudged back up the hill and retrieved it. There were still a couple of the street lights on, which aided my trip.
However, when I started back down the hill it was lights off throughout the Methodist Camp and I was in the total dark! I had been raised in a rural area, I had usually gotten up before light, there weren’t even street lights in my town, and I had taken this same walk 2 times a day in the past few days. I panicked.
Trees, that were objects of beauty during the day, became monster-like. The wind, which was hardly blowing, became a frightening sound. Every stick or leaf, upon which I stepped, became a threat. Suddenly, the hopes and dreams of the candles and all the things I had learned about art and religion began to vanish.
It was not until I got to the path toward Log House, in which the lone kitchen night-light shone, that I remember breathing normally. I do not remember stumbling or falling in my time of dread. I do not remember repeating Bible verses or singing hymns in my time of fear. But, I do remember when The Lone Night-Light Shone, I felt safe and I felt home. That was one of the earliest times I ever felt “Jesus, the Light of the World.”
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