Some years ago I was sitting in my room watching television. It was a Sunday evening and my favorite show was on, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Each time I watched this show, I was inspired by the humble servants who were given a second chance and a beautiful home. This particular evening the featured family was located in Missouri; they operated a camp for children with special needs. Camp Barnabas was a place for children, who might not otherwise have an opportunity to enjoy the summer camp experience, to come and spend a week doing the same things their non-disabled peers take for granted. As I watched the show, I was moved by the stories they shared so much so I searched for them on the internet the next day.
In my search I discovered their Christians in Action program. “CIA’s” were volunteers who gave a week in service to the campers. They spend the week accompanying campers to all their activities, praise and worship, swimming, horseback riding, canoeing; their presence allows the campers the freedom to safely and joyfully experience camp. I decided to apply to be a CIA for one week the following summer. I completed the application and prayed that I would be granted to opportunity to give of myself in this way. A month or so later, on Christmas Eve, I received a letter informing me that I had been accepted and the next July I would need to report to camp, in Purdy, Missouri.
Time went by and the week of camp rapidly approached and with it anxiety and fear of venturing into this experience. Although I had been monumentally inspired by this place and their saintly work, I was entering this week alone, with no one who would know me, know my family, or my faith. I was entering virtually blind in every way; accept the one that matters most, God had called me here. Knowing this was the only comfort I carried with me. All the anxiety I felt couldn’t stop me from following Him. As I drove I battled this tremendous anxious fear with His call, His strength, His commission.
Making the driving to Missouri easier, I extended the drive to include an overnight visit with a friend in Kansas City. I left Saturday morning with enough time to arrive early to camp. I followed the directions, highways, dirt roads, lonely stretches of fields. While I drove, I realized that I would not have an opportunity to go to mass once I arrived at camp. This was Saturday afternoon, the campers would arrive on Sunday morning and I would not be able to leave until the following Saturday. This slowly became a great concern for me, perhaps as a result of the anxiety. Lost in this thought I traveled down a two-lane highway with tall fields on either side. Suddenly in the distance I saw a small billboard. As I approached the sign, I read, “Welcome… from St. Mary’s. Mass times, 3:30 Saturday… Join Us.”
Was this an invitation from my travel companion, my God? I entered the small town determined to find St. Mary’s Catholic Church. In what appeared to be downtown, I took a left, then a right, then another right, and ended up back on the street I started from. I looked up and across the railroad tracks in an empty field was the church. Praise God. It was 3:25. I crossed the street and the tracks and went inside. A quaint sanctuary with beautiful stained glass windows and old pews, it smelled just like a church should smell. I took a seat at the back as mass began. I don’t remember the exact readings, or the homily from the priest, but I remember the peace that came over me. My fears subsided and I was filled with the Holy Spirit. When I left, I was prepared for what lay ahead of me.
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