Camp of Champions Changed my Life

Next week my brother is borrowing our Suburban to transport youth from our church to Mississippi for Camp of Champions. As I was pulling the miscellaneous baby paraphernalia that had landed there over the past several months, I got thinking about the drive to and from, and about the weeks I've spent there, and about the many ways the event has impacted my life and the lives of hundreds of others. I let myself remember the giddy feeling of preparing for camp. What will it be like this year? What will God do? Who will be there?

COC was founded 21 (right?) years ago, with a couple dozen youth. Now registration is maxed out at 130, on a first come, first served basis. And that is only at one campus; there are COC TX and COC Lincoln (in Costa Rica). There has been talk over the years of a COC OH and COC PA and who knows how many others in recent years now that I have been out of the direct COC loop.

The first COC I attended was in 1997. I was 16. My family had just moved to Atlanta, and we had left all our friends up north. We started attending our church in May, and the youth group was going to camp in June. There I learned that I could make some awesome friends so I wouldn't have to be homesick. I also enjoyed a depth of the presence of God that I had never known. I had experienced moments in various meetings or encounters on my own with Him before, but there in southern Mississippi, the taste of the reality of God's nearness and goodness and His purpose for my life has affected me ever since. Worship became a joyful expression of gratitude and awe. Prayer was a conversation. The Bible had words in it that could pierce my very soul, bringing revelation and comfort. Unity in a community of believers was manifest. Purpose and passion for the things of God were lived out in the examples of the counselors and staff. My heart grasped hold of this hope: A life of faith that has reality in it is possible. And it could be my life.

The format is simple enough: junior high and high school students (and those going into college) are divided into teams with a captain and co-captain. There is almost a mathematical equation to the way the teams are constructed--from different churches, at different ages, and different athletic skill. Kids come from all around the region, most of them from a group of churches loosely connected through their pastoral leadership. During the week that team competes in sports, team skits, a talent show, memory verse quotation, and completion of tasks like cleaning the dorms or sports fields. Points are awarded or deducted, and the winning team goes home with a trophy. Every morning high value is placed on 30 minutes of quiet time, "one-on-one with Jesus," then followed by breakfast (along with announcements, cheers, and the typical camp counselor silliness) then a short chapel service and sports. Then lunch, more sports, and free time. Showering had never been so coveted as during free time when we could clean up and rest in the cool dorms. After that, we'd gather for supper, do our daily team clean-up project, and go to the evening chapel service. That is when the fire fell. We prayed, sang, listened, wept, and rejoiced; so many of us--campers and staff alike--were broken, delivered, saved, renewed, and challenged.

That first year, we drove home in a thunderstorm, and for the first time since early childhood I was so captivated by the majesty of rain and lightening. I was so grateful for air conditioning in that van. I was challenged by the driver's reflections on the week and what he saw in those of us who were riding home with him and his wife. I saw Atlanta's huge, sparkling skyline for the first time when we drove through at night. All of it was seen through eyes that had been given new lenses, with appreciation for the beauty and creativity of the world around me, of the life I had been given to live. I was so excited and peaceful at the same time.

Over the years, I attended at least 15 camps. Maybe 16, but I can't remember. However many, I have all but one of the t-shirts to prove it. I attended as a camper for 3 years, and as a staff member for the remaining 9. I was baptized in the lake where we had sea weed fights during the "Octathalon." While pacing the asphalt around midnight in front of the Bluebird Chapel, and after years of frustration and doubt regarding it, I finally received my prayer language. In the poor, dusty neighborhoods of Uvalde, TX, I got over my fear of offering prayer to someone whose eyes are filled with tears because of the kindness of a group of kids. I have made friends who are as close as family, and with whom I would be honored to call friends for the rest of my life. I met my husband while I was in Texas, meeting up with a group of some of those friends I had met and served beside at camp. Two years ago at the last camp I attended outside of San Antonio, Texas, God gave me Lizzie's middle name, Hosanna. I guess I should have known she would be a girl.

Many years ago, when "making the camp video" was a running joke among those of us in the greater camp community, there have been several celebrities who have been coerced to say on camera, "Camp of Champions changed my life!" so that they could be inserted into the annual camp highlights video. Those people never actually attended, but it was always fun to get them to make a cameo appearance from some dark backstage room, saying that their lives were changed. But in all honesty, had I not been given the opportunity to attend these events, my life would not have been the same.