I Just Didn’t Want to Go Home

Reflections on tears shed as church camp came to a close

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I sat in the middle of the church bus. The group of middle school kids was rowdy as we began the several-hour journey to the camp near a lake in the western part of the state.

I joined in the fun — laughing and talking with friends, increasingly comfortable the further we got away from that church parking lot and our homes in that small, Kentucky town.

I began to sweat a bit, though, as the bus pulled off the interstate.

I pulled the plastic bag from my backpack.

My mom had said I could use all those coins at the vending machines at camp. For snacks.

They weren’t organized or counted or anything. Just an assortment of coins she’d gotten from somewhere. No pennies. She’d sorted out the pennies — knowing machines wouldn’t take them.

All in all, I had a little over $5. Surely, enough for a week of snacks at camp.

But I hadn’t counted on this. On stopping for lunch.

All the other kids had some cash — had planned to eat on the way.

As they bounded off the bus and into the McDonald’s, I lagged behind a bit.