Keep Going

Early in Rod’s life, God began laying the first stepping-stone to create a life and ministry much greater than our adoption story. A simple decision of our young family attending a family church camp led to the current ministry of stroke camp weekends. Today, hundreds of stroke survivors and caregivers enjoy a renewing weekend retreat birthed from our early experiences at a camp. In the summer of 1972, my mother stopped by our home with a church brochure for a week long family church camp at a nearby Methodist campground. She thought it sounded like a fun getaway and suggested that our family join her and my brother, Rodney, in attending. Sounding like a nice low-cost getaway for our young family, we decided to attend. We would enjoy a break in our routine, and I wouldn’t have to cook or do dishes for a week. No cooking and no dishes cinched it for me, and the six of us registered. We were familiar with the beautiful eighty-acre haven. Epworth Springs Camp was owned and operated by the United Methodist Church. Located in the rolling farmland of central Illinois, the camp was set a few miles off the state highway. We felt like we were leaving the “regular” world as we drove down a gravel road. We went across railroad tracks, around a curve, and a beautiful vista of trees and open green space laid before us. Stopping at the main building, we got our cabin assignment. We headed down the gravel road to find the cabin we were assigned among twenty cabins dotting a hillside among majestic oak trees. We were ready for our new adventure. We unloaded our belongings into our assigned cabin, including suitcases, bedding, and all the paraphernalia needed for Molly, two, and Rod, five months old. The cabin was a wooden structure with about ten bunk beds arranged around the perimeter. We had brought a baby carriage for Rod to sleep in. Molly could sleep on a lower bunk. Boyd selected an upper bunk, and I decided that I would sleep on a lower bunk in case the kids needed me during the night. My mother and brother picked out their bunks, and we got settled. After enjoying a delicious dinner and meeting the rest of the families, we headed down to our cabin for the night. We settled into our bunks. As I was reading a magazine with a flashlight on my lower bunk, a mouse ran across the magazine. I made it from my bottom bunk to the top bunk without screaming and waking the kids, and I spent the rest of the week sleeping, fitfully, on a top bunk. Even with the challenge of caring for young children in a camp setting, we had a wonderful week. In the mornings and evenings, organized activities were offered. After a delicious breakfast each morning, we had a time of family worship, and then we divided into age-level groups and enjoyed a time of study. After our noontime meal, we would head down the hill to our cabin for naps. The pool would be open in the afternoons. There was a lake for fishing and hiking trails. During free time, there was always an impromptu volleyball game that Boyd and Rodney enjoyed. I liked visiting with the other mothers as our children played. Each evening, we’d participate in an all-camp activity, including a skit night, a night swim, and on Friday, our final night, a campfire. During that time, campers would share what the week meant to them and provide love and support to each other. Those campfires allowed time for reflection and renewal as we returned to our individual homes. Family church camp become our family tradition. For the first week of August, we would go to camp. Everyone in our family looked forward to camp week. We attended that camp for ten years. Our life would have felt incomplete without our yearly retreat. Camp week was a meaningful restorative time for everyone. We found an opportunity to build close friendships with others who were seeking to grow in Christian faith and have family time apart from our normal environment. Because there was a strong core of ten to twelve families who returned every year, deep and lasting bonds developed among us. As the week unfolded, we ate meals together, played games, went swimming, talked, cried, and celebrated each other’s lives. God’s presence was with us and gave us a sense of safety and acceptance that allowed us to look at our own lives as well as supporting our friends’ in their lives. Each year, as we traveled to camp, the family topic of discussion focused on the big question: “Which cabin will we get assigned to?” This was important because there were no bathrooms in the cabins. All campers shared a ladies’ bath/shower house and a men’s bath/shower house located on the hillside among the cabins. I hated hiking to the bathroom in the middle of the night! One of my funniest memories was when our good friend Sarah was in the women’s bathhouse and had taken out her false teeth to clean them. She terrified our little girls when she turned from the sink to greet them with her teeth still in the cup. They raced back to the cabin and giggled their way through the telling of their shocking experience. As the kids grew older, they invited friends to come to camp with them. Molly invited her friend Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen’s mother was very clear about how precious her daughter was and the importance of her entrusting Mary Ellen’s care to us. Mary Ellen, like most kids, wanted to sleep on the top bunk, and I was worried she might fall out. We put three bunks together, shoving the third one next to the wall. I had Mary Ellen sleep in the third one next to the wall and put Molly in the middle. The final bunk was left empty on top, and I slept on the bottom—ready for anything that might befall us. After arranging the bunks, sleeping was uneventful; no children fell out of bunks. Mary Ellen was returned to her mother unscathed, returning to camp with us year after year. The children played together, and shared in worship, meals, and games. Camp was the perfect place for kids to run and play. They loved swimming every afternoon as well as fishing in the small lake. When Molly was old enough to attend Girl Scouts camp, I realized that Rod would never be able to attend an all-kid’s camp. He needed us to take care of his daily medical needs. I felt sad for him. He was growing up without knowing another person with cystic fibrosis. In 1981, we knew that Rod’s days were getting short. The August camp would likely be Rod’s final camp. Rod was frail, yet he wanted to do all the things he always did. Boyd was recuperating from back surgery, so Rodney and I would carry Rod on our backs. Black eyes snapping, Rod was not to be stopped. Our friend Bill brought his telescope for nighttime stargazing. Bill enjoyed astronomy and told Rod a group of shooting stars was anticipated while we were at camp. On the last night of camp, we gathered on the hillside, hoping for a glimpse of one. Rod insisted he needed to see one, and as it got later and later, our prayers became increasingly fervent: “Please let Rod see a shooting star soon so we can go to bed!” Rod’s fragile health had galvanized my passion and determination to create a camp for children with cystic fibrosis. At the closing campfire, I shared with our camp family that Rod’s days were numbered—and my goal was to start a camp for kids with cystic fibrosis in his memory. When we returned home, I began inquiring about how I could establish a memorial fund. What I could not do for Rod, I could do for others. Rod would leave a legacy.