“We are so glad you are here! Okay, here are the keys to all of camp, a stack of old files that are of
minimal value (except 2 or 3 that are vitally important), and here is a map of camp from 20 years
ago...it’s not really accurate, but we have a volunteer that was working on a new map. I’m pretty sure
they will send it along soon. Alright, well, see you at the next board meeting!”
That wasn’t how my first day of work went, but it kind of felt like it. Ironically, the more I have talked with other camp professionals, it sounds pretty common, with some unique variations. It’s definitely a
trend.
I can still remember, a year after getting my dream job at the camp where my wife and I met, having a sense that even though we were surrounded by people all summer, we now lived on an island. It’s ironic, really. A place that gathers so many people can feel so isolating.
For years, we adapted. We slowly made friends in a rural community (camp is a place set apart, but that comes as a challenge for those who live here) and learned to make lists for when we “went to town” rather than
having the conveniences of living in a larger community. But the loneliness persisted. Even among the friends
we made, no one could truly understand what it meant to live and work at camp. They would try, but how can anyone know without living this unique life?
The first time we went to a UMCRM National Gathering, it was such a remarkable moment. It was at Camp
Sumatanga in Alabama, and I can remember finally feeling like I was known without having to explain myself.
Events like this were an oasis every two years as we wandered the wilderness.
In an odd twist of fate, that all changed when COVID arrived. As camps across the country tried to understand
how or if we could move forward during a pandemic, we filled Zoom rooms as we shared what we were hearing and thinking. The connections I made during those Zoom meetings created a much broader and more consistent network within the UMCRM family than before. By having a common cause and strong leadership from Jessica Gamaché, our “community conversations” were a place of hope for many of us.
Today, I never feel isolated on my island in Wisconsin. Nothing changed practically, but now when the weird,
difficult, amazing, or joy-filled moments happen, I have a handful of close friends from around the country to share with. To me, this network is the greatest gift that UMCRM has given me professionally and personally.