looking through me

Summer camp.

I looked forward to camp for years. Once the eldest started, I wanted to go. And when it was the middle’s turn I became downright antsy—for two years—until I could go, too.

The summer before sixth grade, camp was amazing. I slept in a covered wagon. My team won the competition, though rain prevented us from sleeping in the fort to celebrate. I went rappelling. But on the morning it was time to leave we waited and waited and waited. We waited some more. No bus.

By that point I was done with camp. It’s not that I wanted to go home. I wanted my brothers. The middle was in the junior high camp and the eldest was in the high school camp. I hadn’t seen them in almost a week. I was beside myself with sibling withdrawal.

Then a few people approached our camp on foot. One of them was the eldest! I took off running. He knelt in the road and I ran straight into his arms. And I didn’t let go. So he stood up still holding me, and as they explained whatever the issue was with the bus, I wrapped myself tighter around him.

It didn’t occur to me as all the rest of the fourth, fifth and sixth graders started trudging along behind our high school chaperones that there was anything odd about the fact the eldest was still carrying me.

At the time the distance seemed enormous. Now I know the camps were only a half-mile apart, but it didn’t matter—he carried me the whole way.

This post is part of the 31 Days: Family series. Read the beginning, and see a full index of posts, here.

I have a little memory issue. I forget a lot. Often significant things. Entire vacations. Intentional memory-making outings.

In my feeble defense, I am the youngest child. There are some things for which I cannot be held responsible.

But I haven’t forgotten everything.

On Christmas morning my parents were up first. Once the three of us were up and ready we waited behind the closed hall door. Dad was in the living room. Camera at the ready. Mom would open the hall door and verify our eyes were closed. Then she would lead us into the entryway.

She positioned us in the doorway of the living room. Eyes still closed. Some years she posed us; some years we got creative all on our own. But she always told each of us where we were looking: eldest, look at the chair; middle, look in front of the fireplace; youngest, look at the loveseat.

And when Dad was ready to snap the reaction picture, we opened our eyes and each looked at the designated location of our unwrapped present.

I may not remember what all the special gifts were, but I remember the tradition. I remember the anticipation and the volume of love spoken through the annual event. I remember the joy on my parents’ faces watching each of us discover what we’d received.

We’re all grown up now. We don’t receive unwrapped presents at Christmas any more, but it was never about the gifts. It was always about the expression of love given and love received. And that I won’t forget.

This post is part of the 31 Days: Family series. Read the beginning, and see a full index of posts, here.