My homework this week was to articulate three experiences that fueled spiritual growth. It is not your usual dinner party conversation starter, so it took reflection. Historically, my life has run at a pace that left a slender margin for pondering. The children at my feet, the dinner on the stove, and the phone ringing in another room distracted me from such a leisurely endeavor. 

 

But lately there is space for wondering. Why have I chosen a path that is not spelled out for me by Google Maps? 

 

One of the memories I recalled was about church camps. My father was on the front lines of retreats into the woods with a hundred teenagers. He loved it. While some adults shied away from the unpredictability of sixteen-year-olds, especially a mob of them, Dad played to their strengths. He invited me to participate as well, gifting me a guitar and the chance to accompany worship services under the Hemlocks. When we lived in California, my parents welcomed those teens who needed a brief liberation from their homes. Mom fed them pizza, and let them get sunburned at the beach. Then they set them to work. It turns out that hard labor with your friends, especially if it involves a paint roller and clippers, is not a bad thing. 

 

While he never complained to me about it, I somehow understood that Dad took heat for this. His boss, and the congregations he served, were not sold on the notion of catering to people too young to hold down a job and too old for play dates. Maybe what I learned without a textbook, was that serving others happens in more places than inside the nave.