There was a knock at the door.
I looked out the window and saw a woman with a young boy. It isn’t unusual to have people stop by looking for the director. Josh was out running errands. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to help.
When I opened the door I saw the face of a boy I used to know, but he wasn’t a boy anymore. I didn’t have a chance to speak before he said his name. I knew his name. He didn’t have to tell me.
In an instinctive instant I threw my arms around the grown child. We hadn’t seen or talked to him since our outdoor chapel wedding. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out here. Too long, he said, it’s been way too long.
He and his wife and son had gotten to the airport two hours early to find their Florida flight running three hours late. The airport is only a rock skip and a jump from the camp. He told his pregnant wife, “I know where we can go.”
This is what I love about camp. This is what I have always loved.
This was the place we could go. This is where we belonged, where we were welcomed and loved and accepted with open arms.
We were brothers and sisters and friends forever in our hearts and things we couldn’t ever name because there were no words.
This was our home.
I opened wide the front door and welcomed them all inside.
The dishes in the sink, my broken vacuum flipped over on the floor, the sick child on the couch–none of it mattered. There was room, plently of room. They would always be room.
We settled in the chairs and caught up on all the basics of life, just in time for the director to pull in. I ran outside to tell him of our guests. I didn’t tell him who. I knew I wouldn’t have to.
They’ll always be welcome here.