I wasn’t 100% sure what to expect going into my weekend at Galilee. I had been in my [Assistant Director] position for a little over three months at that point and was quite keen on using my newfound power for good. I had been given the exciting task of creating a family camp for families with individuals with disabilities. To prepare myself, I partnered with Karis Disability Services.  

I flew from my home in Alberta to join them at Galilee Bible Camp for a weekend Family Camp to learn as much as I could about running the camps, training staff, and supporting caregivers. The world of camp ministry isn’t new to me, but disability ministry in the context of camp ministry was something that I hadn’t put much thought into. The weight of such a task was burdensome. Instead of feeling excited at the prospect of creating a camp where individuals feel loved and cherished as valued members of the Imago Dei, I was petrified that I would inadvertently create an environment where people would be hurt. The weight of this ministry rested sharply on my shoulders. This was the mindset I went into my weekend with, but it was not what I was left with.   

I spent my weekend tubing with Phil, a 30-year-old man who had never had the opportunity to slide down a hill before. We’d reach the top after each run, and I’d ask if he wanted to go again. “Yes indeed” was the reply. I asked if he was nervous. “Yes indeed,” he would say before pushing himself back down the hill, stiff as a board atop his tube, without any hesitation. I watched a father in a wheelchair, filled with joy, observing his children playing with other parents who could participate in ways he could not. There was no sense of self-pity or martyrdom in this environment. We were simply all happy to see one another. When somebody was done with a task, we moved on. If they wanted to try again, we tried again. I scratched the surface of a method of communication I’d never stopped to notice, using a language I knew. Most of all, I learned how narrow my view of Glory was, how shallow the depth of my love was and how uninvested in the community of creation I was.  

On our Saturday, my camper and I were the first in the dining hall for lunch. I had asked him where he would like to sit. Excitedly, he shouted, “Together!” I was taken aback. I was handed a beautiful moment with a beautiful friend who seemed to understand the world much better than I. The table we are called to is a table for us all, and I pray that I become as eager to sit with others as Phil was to sit with me. 

I am not without nervousness now; the significance of the task is not lost on me, but it has become just that: a significant task, not a burdensome one. This shift in mindset came from realizing that my job is really a very simple one; I am to love the Lord my God, and to love my neighbor as myself. To do this job well is to love well. Loving is always a significant task. The work becomes a lot less scary when you realize all you have to do is love; we can all do that. My camp is a few months away now, and the jitters are starting to set in as I track down speakers and volunteers. I cannot wait to have these families here at camp. I’m working at the moment to find and inspire staff who share this desire to love and to love well. To identify gifts and to celebrate them. To see an individual and to understand their inherent necessity.  

I shared some of my apprehension with one of the Karis staff, who has since become a friend. He shared that so long as what we offer is better than what there was, and we aim to always do better, we’ll be ok. I, of course, desire to love perfectly. I want to love in such a way that there are no faults, but I cannot. But I can love more today and love more tomorrow too. Perhaps one day I can even be as loving as Phil. I hope so.