Three Stories

Four years ago after an exhausting week of camp, Eric stumbled into his bedroom. Eyes heavy, he had barely made it home. His driving was worse than usual; two blocks from his house he rear-ended his father’s pickup truck.

Collapsing into bed he tried to put the week’s havoc behind him. By mere lottery misfortune Eric had drawn all of the “troubled” children at camp—kids with disabilities, behavioral issues and scarred pasts.

He spent the majority of the week yelling. “Walk!” he shrieked, “Follow me, and no, we do not eat soap!”

At home, his slumber was deep. It was a moment of peace after a week of chaos.

Concerned, at 7:30 pm, his mom knocked on the door.

“Eric,” she whispered, “do you want to get up? Would you like some dinner?”

He jolted up in bed, his eyes half shut. He was clearly confused. Instinctually, he raised his right arm and repeated the same words he had been shouting all week.

“I think we need to keep all the boys together!” he said boldly.

Confused his mom walked away and Eric quickly fell back asleep. The following morning he didn’t remember a thing.

 

I have warts on the inside of my right hand. Believe me, not by choice! I have tried everything to remove them: wart removers, Nitrous Oxide and good ol’ fashion “picking.” But my hand still looks like a semi-mountainous version of Michigan.

Last summer I tried to have them frozen off. It was one of the most physically painful experiences of my life. But in the doctor’s office I always played tough.

“How do you feel?” my dermatologist asked.

“Oh just fine…” ” I responded. “Let’s keep on, keep’n on.” We both knew I was lying. The hurt in my face was clear. But neither one of us ever admitted it.

Afterwards I would proceed proudly through the lobby with my face smiling and my head held high only to step out into to the parking lot, lock the doors to my Honda Civic and yell every single obscenity I could think of at the top of my lungs.

Despite this personal torture and the excessive amounts of Tylenol I took, at the end of the summer my craters still remained.

My doctor told me I needed more time. In infomercial fashion, she said I too could remove my undesirables if I merely committed fully to the process. She told me, I needed to settle down and find a doctor. She said I needed to find a home.

 

When I studied in Heidelberg, Germany I began volunteering with Young Life on a local U.S. army base. In many ways this was my first “unique” ministry experience. Many of the kids were not only internationally traveled army brats but were dealing with having one or two parents stationed in Iraq.

I loved hanging out with the nerdy kids. They reminded me of myself—thoughtful, well spoken and socially awkward. They told me how they believed computer role playing games reflected the essence of life. I told them they needed to find a girlfriend.

Towards the end of my journey I found it extremely difficult to say goodbye. I remember telling Gabe, my roommate, how much I loved them.

Gabe told me it wasn’t just “Heidelberg” kids that I loved. He said it was obvious that I loved kids–period. He told me I had a gift and referred to my passion as a calling. He said that if I didn’t work with kids one day he would find it tragic.

Last week I was asked if I am a vision oriented person. I said, “No, I view life through stories.”

These last few weeks I have had to make a lot of “life” decisions. During this time these stories have been the events I reflected upon.

 

After much prayer and reflection, I have decided to defer graduate school. Three months ago I would have never dreamed of writing this. But God is continuing to lead me on a new and exciting path–beyond the current miles of this roadtrip.

I have accepted a fulltime position at Rocketown–the same 40,000 square foot Christian youth center Eric and I volunteered at in October. It was the ministry where I felt most alive. In Nashville I felt at home; it was the only place where I was able to love and hangout with “nerdy” kids.

In an ironic turn of events, Eric will also be moving to Nashville. God has called him to Vanderbilt Divinity School. The school has reached out its hand of financial grace and offered him a “loafs and fish” worthy scholarship.

 

So what do all this mean?

It means to my doctor’s orders I have found a home; that Gabe was right and working with teens is a part of my calling; and possibly, most surprisingly, after a year of sharing sofa beds, motel rooms and an economy small car the boys are sticking together.

Let’s keep on, keep’n on,

-Kent-