Gramdma goes camping

 Hal and I went on our last tent-camping trip just before the pandemic hit. We were five-years younger than we are now and beginning to feel the physical challenges of “roughing it.” In fact, we came home one day earlier than we had intended. That was then.

The camping trip I went on last week was not anywhere near wilderness camping. I attended a women’s retreat at a Christian campground. Only mildly primitive. But, even so….

The grounds were rustic, something a group of middle-school kids would relish. I’m years removed from middle-school, and “relish” is not a word I would use about last week. I’m speaking of the physical realities, not the spiritual experience. I had to take my old sleeping bag out of storage. It had been a while and I had not remembered how restrictive sleeping bags are. I’m a restless sleeper these nights, so as I turned over, parts of the bag turned with me and other parts stayed put. I ended up in a twisted tunnel of bedding and had to pull and tug a bit to get comfortable. This happened multiple times throughout the night.

The simple wooden bunkbeds were arranged in rows in cabins. Five of us slept in my cabin, which meant none of us had to occupy a top bunk. (In that case, I would have gone right home.) It also meant little privacy, which one can live with for a limited time. But the bathroom was housed in a separate building which presented a problem. As you all know, older bladders shrink, along with other internal organs, which can mean multiple trips to the bathroom. But one can also adapt to that situation if it’s for a limited time. I just kept my slippers, robe, and flashlight close to the bed. However, those forays out into the night made it harder to get back to sleep. (Stop, grumbling, Nancy, I told myself over and over. It could be worse. You’ll live.)

I didn’t sleep at all the second night which was especially problematical since the following day was the all-day fast out in the wilderness. Actually, I had been looking forward to it. I fast at home sometimes, usually for 24 hours. This was a longer fast. We were all sent out to find private spaces in the forest or along the river. We were given a back pack with a notebook of spiritual teachings and prompts for reflection and writing, and a supply of water and sports-drinks. We also carried a folding camp chair.

I knew it would turn out to be a warm day, so I dressed lightly. First mistake. The morning was cold. I had chosen a large field with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. But the tall trees to the side kept the sun from reaching the field and I began to shiver. Then shake. My dizziness increased and I did not feel spiritual at all. I finally got up and went seeking another spot, finally finding a lovely place in the forest with sun coming through the trees and a view of the river. But two hours had passed in the meantime.

Our pack included sports drinks, which I usually don’t consume, but I thought that extra electrolytes would help me, so I drank both bottles, noting how much they tasted like colonoscopy preparation.

I made it through the day, fighting my lack of sleep and my dizziness the whole time. When we gathered at the meeting room at the end of the day, our leaders led us through some debriefing exercises. They went on longer than I had hoped for; I was anticipating a small nourishing meal to end the day. Then our leader told us our fast would end at breakfast the next day. Slight let-down. But sleep awaited.

And I did sleep well. After breakfast the next morning, I discovered why the sports-drinks had tasted like colonoscopy prep. They were colonoscopy prep. Or very near to the real thing. I experienced painless but uncontrollable diarrhea all morning long, meaning I could not participate fully in the teaching. I did manage to sit in the back of the room by the door in case I needed to dash out. The staff was understanding, even did an extra load of laundry for me. But I was exhausted.

OK. So much for this tale of woe!

In spite of the challenges, by the end of the week I had no doubts that the Holy Spirit had touched and refreshed me. I was meant to be at that retreat. I wondered why at different points. Most of the teaching and the experiences the staff led us in I had been experiencing all my life. It wasn’t new stuff. But I came to realize that certain spiritual practices never get old, that for the rest of my life I still need to seek healing for past hurts and wounds, to let the Spirit reveal areas of sin in my life that need confessing, show me people and events that I still need to forgive. This is all deep stuff and the Spirit ministered to me in all these areas.

Even during that long, difficult day of fasting. At one point near the end of the day, a phrase popped out of one of the readings and I felt God giving it to me, something to carry with me into the future. The phrase was Live the glory! I’m looking forward to understanding what that means. Near the end of the afternoon, we were told to open the packet of letters written to us by family and friends. Hal had collected them in the weeks before the camp. The letters were like light coming through the leaves, warming and blessing me. Through the letters, I received a second word from God: Write the glory! An affirmation of my life’s calling. Yes.

The blessing and refreshing touched all of us at the retreat, regardless of age. It’s good to remember that.

However, I need to consider the physical challenges the next time I have a retreat or camping opportunity. Hal and I are still hanging on to our little two-person tent, the camping stove and dishes, the blow-up mattresses, the sleeping bags, and other valuable paraphernalia. Sunday evening as I was telling him about my experience at the retreat, I added, I think it’s time to give away all that stuff to whichever grandkid wants it.

In fact, maybe we could exchange our camping equipment for a few nights at a resort hotel. That sort of camping I can still do.