A soggy but sweet ride

Survivor camp this year was WET. I had the absolute honor of coordinating the camp this year, as I was "Kitchen Manager" last. We did, however, experience a bit more moisture than last year. Nevertheless, we pulled through as a group, and kept spirits ever so high!

We began with digging. Latrines, compost; space for tents had to be scythed. Set up takes WORK!


Then an attempt to feed children with nothing but wet wood and grechka.


Not all is bad when soaked. Our day of hiking Pip Ivan (in the Carpathian mountains) was lovely with its misty morning.


Found a shack for some dairy farmers. They live there for four months straight, feeding and milking the sheep and cows. What a job!


Feeling dominating.


Ransacking lunch at the ransacked observatory. YUM.


Tent City. I could move in here.


In between being awesome, teaching me the Ukrainian national anthem, and carrying buckets of water, Vlad took a moment to steal the rest of the female hearts with his guitar.


Last day of camp: WET. For days it rained, and now here we go!


Best Parts of Camp:

Some of the campers could not come with us on the big hike, either because they couldn't do it physically or there wasn't space for them on the bus. This leaves some potential for tension when we come back, a fact that always makes me nervous. However, they welcomed us home like we were the star finishers of a marathon. They had cheers ready, "go team!" written on their arms, water bottles as we came through the 'chute,' and tons of smiles. What a wonderful welcome!

My other favorite moment happened as we made our soggy return to civilization. The walk to town is easily longer than an hour, and it had rained hard for two days before. My friend, Ally, and I slept in puddles in our leaky tent, finally called it quits at 7:00 the last morning of Survivor, and packed everything up in the downpour. Since we had responsibilities, we helped take down the camp by filling in the latrine and the compost--in the downpour. Then, we headed down the mountain in the torrential flood that said downpour had created. We were wading through some pretty intense rivers with all our stuff. YIKES. It took us over an hour just to reach the outskirts of town, and as we were making our final turn toward the bus station, a car pulled up. The man inside started out in Ukrainian offering us a ride, and then switched to English. Here we were, these drowned rats trudging through the wet, and he was offering to take us exactly where we needed to be for the same price as the bus. We figured he wasn't going to kill us, so we got in. He started talking about his life and family and was a very sweet and genuine man. His second son has development problems, we also discovered. The symptoms sounded similar to muscular dystrophy.

Anyway, the 2 1/2 hour bus ride soaking wet and being glared at by the other passengers was much more enjoyable in Mihael's back seat, which took a little over an hour. One our way into the town, he called his wife, saying, "I happened upon these two American girls...can I bring them home?" A hot shower (the first in weeks) was followed by a hot bowl of delicious soup made fresh for us, and the most amazing family time ever! The oldest boy was about 4, and ADORABLE. Seriously. He was very active, but always very attentive to his surroundings. And his brother, who was in a sort of wheely chair meant for kids between crawling and walking. That boy had the most captivating joy...everything was a delight to him. his father had been away for a few days, and when he came in, he gave the boy a tousle of his hair; his smile lit the room. We played with both boys before they went down for their naps, and then saw photos from the couple's wedding. Mihael's wife was so kind and had a very woman-at-rest demeanor. Of course, Mihael didn't let us pay him anything. We left when our other friends arrived in the town and went to get on our trains. I wish we had gotten photos with the boys before they went to bed.

So, it wraps up nicely and warmly. I've washed and dried everything and finally gotten the campsmoke out of my hair. It was a good week, full of challenges, adventures, and many beautiful peaks seen and felt.

Here comes another one

The 24th of July marks the 5-month mark of my nephew’s death from his third round of cancer. The first took Nolan’s leg below the knee before he was a year old, the second his hair and a lot of time to and from doctors, the third a clear passageway to his lungs. Two days before his sixth birthday, surrounded by family, Nolan ended his fight with cancer. I was at a training seminar and asleep when my dad called me at 2:00 am with the news, taking my own breath away.

Today, remembering that Nolan just doesn’t exist anymore, rushes the wind out of me and paradoxically fills me with something solid while also cutting my connections to gravity. I routinely have to take pause at school when the little 1st and 2nd formers come rushing through the halls, all bouncy-haired and vibrant. I had a minor panic attack when my STRENGTH NHJ first-cancer-round-fundraiser bracelet broke last month, and had to calm my breathing and stop the flood of tears.

And I wasn’t even with him every day.

A few weeks ago, I got the news that my grandpa on my mom’s side died. He was a great man and lived a great, long life. He was sick and had been battling all kinds of things from prostate cancer to dementia, and so it was his time. I remember spending weekends at his house as a kid, exploring his workshop, marveling at how good pipe tobacco smelled until it was lit, and hearing his standard I-like-bananas-because-they-don’t-have-any-bones joke. He left a legacy of six kids, 17 grandkids, and 4 great-grandkids. Like I said, he lived a great, long life.

There is something actually tragic about the death of a child, tragic in a way I’d never before understood the meaning. The lost potential for love and life, like a great book you’re only a few chapters into and then lose and are left wondering what happened. There is something horrifying at how such a thing could happen to an innocent person. There is something that brings about anger.

Today, remembering that Nolan doesn’t exist anymore, still makes me angry at God. You know that old analogy about the tapestry? It is supposed to be God’s plan for people, all intricate weavings and color changes and subtle patterns. Humans are often faulted as being unable to see more than the underside’s messiness and loose ends. But what it if is simply that we haven’t been offered the chance to rise up over the cloth’s edges to catch a glimpse of what beauty is being created? Are we to simply understand that the other side is beautiful while we find degrees of beauty in the unmatched, fraying threads?

The hard and painful truth is that life is contrasts. How can we know bitter, cold winter until we’ve tasted glorious, hot summer? How can we enjoy the touch of kindness if we haven’t had someone come at us with rudeness? How can we know the rush joy without feeling the stings of pain? How can we possibly understand the ridiculous discrepancies between a good, long life and tragedy? Contrasts suck.

Grandpa Tom’s tapestry continues through the interconnectedness he created during his long, great life. Nolan’s tapestry is similarly resolved, though I have a great deal less peace about the unfinished clumps of color and blank spaces. Tapestries suck, too.

What doesn’t suck is the greater understanding I now have in the contrast of weakness and strength. “Strength” will forever be synonymous with NHJ—Nolan Hunter Johnson. I remember thinking when he was born, what a good, strong name, a name for a solid start at a great life. Nolan had his start. And now we live with his death, his lesson in strength. His bouncy curls and never-ending energy and enthusiasm. The understanding of “peace” will come when the turmoil eases.

Nolan at Christmas