Story of the One: Reflections on my third year at Royal Family Kids Camp
For the last few years, every summer I have taken a week of vacation time from work and I go with a group of folks out to The Middle of Nowhere and serve at Royal Family Kids Camp.

When I return, I get a lot of questions like, “was camp fun?”
That is a question I have a hard time answering. Because yeah, camp is fun, but camp is hard. Camp is work. Camp is less sleep than I get in my day to day life. Camp is giving up of my life, of my time, of my place, to serve those I feel called to serve.
You see, I spend the week as a camp counselor with a boy who is in the foster care system. I spend the week making sure he gets to have fun, even when it is hard.
But even when it is hard, it is good.
This year was my third year serving with the same boy. It is really cool and impressive to see how much he has grown in the last three years, but still maintains many of the same characteristics It has been three years of learning patience and working to understand how he views the world. He is the kind of kid that will go fishing and sit in the same place for two and a half hours waiting for a fish, but also the kind of kid that will run around with so much energy the next minute.
On Wednesday morning of camp, we ended up at the gym with another counselor and boy before breakfast. In the gym, there are this bikes that are like tricycles that have a special brake to drift. My camper and his friend each grab one of the two bikes. About 10 minutes later, some other campers and counselors join us. A kid asks my camper if he can use the bike. My camper keeps riding. This happens a couple times, before I decide to intervene.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, as I walk up. “Our friend here also wants to ride the bike. How about we ride for three more minutes, then trade out with him?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I set my timer and sit back down. The other kid plays ball for a few minutes, then comes to ask me if it is time for him to ride the bike yet. It basically is.
“Hey-o,” I yell out to my camper, “It’s time to trade off and let [our friend]” ride the bicycle.”
No acknowledgement or recognition. So I walk up to him.
“It’s time to let [our friend] ride the bicycle,” I say again, after I catch his attention.
“No,” he says and keeps riding.
I am frozen for just a second. I have done all the right things. I told him in advance. I gave him a time warning. I told him who would be riding next.
I look around, making sure another counselor is watching, then I stand in front of the bike. My camper stops, then backs up and rides around me.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself under my breath.
I step in front of the bike again, as he slows, I slipthe arch of my foot. against the bike wheel.
“We need to share the bike with [the other camper], you have gotten to ride for a long time now, and he has been waiting very patiently.”
My camper starts to roll backward, I manage to catch the wheel with the other side of my foot. I call over the counselor for the other camper, noticing that the other bike has been abandoned. We talk with my camper together for a moment, trying to convince him to share, then the other counselor takes his camper over to the other bike. I stand there for a minute, having a stare-off with my camper. The situation is mostly diffused, but it feels like a loss. It feels like I was not good enough to convince him of the right thing. Like maybe I did the wrong thing. It feels like a million things are wrong.
And then we go to breakfast. Silence between the two of us — which is not uncommon, but still feels weird. I ask him what foods he wants and helps serve him. He has some new dietary needs this year, helping him manage those is a new challenge I am not used to thinking/asking about at every meal. Advocating for that feels good and weird.
We sit and eat together, and he turns to me.
“I love you,” he says.
I am so confused. There is a moment of silence as we eat together, and I wonder what the best, most appropriate way to respond is. As much as I love working with this kiddo, as much as I try to be close, I also have tried to keep my distance, to do the work and not get more involved. As I have seen him grow from someone who will not stand or sing songs during the chapel time to someone on stage leading the hand motions for the songs this year, I have grown to care so much about his well-being, growth and success.
I turn and look at him as I finish chewing some food.
“I mean, it’s something I’ve been thinking about for awhile, and I figured I would just go ahead and say it. I love you.”
‘This much thoughtfulness, this much pause, this much consideration is charming.
“It’s good to say what we are thinking and feeling. You should always do that,” I said.
I take a deep breath and eat another bite of food.
“I am so glad we get to spend time together at camp.” I say. “I look forward to it, and I love going fishing with you, I’m so proud of watching you swim.” He passed his swim test for the first time on the penultimate day of our second year at camp.
We continue our day together. I guess I am a bit confused that he chose that time to, essentially, thank and validate my work. He spends the late morning looking for crawdads in the creek. In the afternoon, I watch him fish for two hours before he transitions to alternating between a rope swing and a diving board. After Everybody’s Birthday, we play with his new stomp rocket in a field with the other boys.
I cannot honestly quantify “was camp fun?” I can say “yeah, yeah,” in conversation when I need to move to the next thing. I can explain in vague terms the physical toll barely sleeping or regularly running to keep up with kids takes. I can try to tell you about some of the emotions that go into camp. I can tell you how much I value paying it forward to these kids. But to find the answer to “was camp fun?” you have to go yourself.
