finding pete, continued

Because of mass, I was now running late for camp. I finished the journey in silence and allowed the Holy Spirit to enter every part of my being. I approached the entrance to camp bubbling with excitement anticipating a week ordained by God.


I drove down the long road to a clearing where a young man stood waving in welcome. I rolled down my window. “Welcome to Camp Barnabas! I am Pete. What’s your name?” he said to me. A few more niceties and he pointed me down the hill where he said I was to park. Phew. He was nice, and cute, what a way to start this off. I parked my car and he walked with me to the check in table where he introduced me to the volunteer. Moments later, I turned around to thank him, but he was gone.


After finding out my assignment I was told to join the other volunteers on the tennis courts where the kick-off meeting was taking place. I searched for Pete, but didn’t find him. Instead I took a seat at the back and listened as the camp directors welcomed us and introduced us to Camp Barnabas. After a couple hours of games, clean up and dinner, praise and worship began back on the tennis court. I sat down, again towards the back and looked to the front. There was Pete, with a set of drums, and his head down, in prayer, as the leader began to sing.


What happened next can only be explained as the Holy Spirit drowning me in peace, relief, joy, hope, grace; I was overcome with tears as I sang in ultimate praise for all these things. I watched Pete as he played the drums and felt something within me. A stirring, as I watched him, it grew. I continued to cry and sing, sing and cry. A truly powerful experience that left me drained.


The next day I joined the other CIA’s as we celebrated the arrival of our campers. Mine came somewhere in the middle of the long line of cars. As he stepped out of his parents van, he took off running, and he didn’t stop until he reached the playground, three football fields away. I ran after him, thinking to myself, what have I gotten myself into? Out of breath I reached my camper and let him play a while until he allowed me to hold his hand and walk with him to his cabin.


A few more runs later, my small group leaders decided it would be best if I traded campers with a younger guy whose camper had cried as often as my camper had run. Garrett and I, my new camper, were a match made in heaven. He was homesick and I needed a hug. We were like two peas in a pod, sharing our feelings with each other, this little 11 year and me, 23 at the time. Garrett and I shared a glorious week together. Every experience was new for both of us. I did my best to embrace his fears and comfort his anxiety, understanding what he was feeling; I gave him the love that I needed too.


Throughout the week I would see Pete a number of times, in as many different places. Always from a distance, and never able to speak with him, I was moved each time with the same feelings as the first night. He was on the hill pushing a kid in a wheel barrel, laughing with the boy as they came down the hill. In the pool with a little girl, obviously fearful of the water, he held her gently, empowering her with his words of encouragement. Each evening in praise and worship, head down in prayer, playing, singing, praising the Lord.


The stirring within me continued to grow stronger. I sat in quiet time and reflected on him, curious and intrigued by his actions. I asked the Lord for a chance to speak with him once more, but it never happened. On the last day, greatly changed by the week and the presence of such a humble servant, I wrote Pete a letter thanking him for his actions which were a witness to me. I explained that I had been inspired by him and would always keep him in my prayers. I placed the letter in the camp mailbox as I was leaving, never knowing if he received it, but confident that the Lord would handle it carefully.


I drove home that day, completely changed by the week I had just finished. Exhausted also by the mountain top where I just spent seven days, I knew I would need the drive to decompress and come slowly back to earth.


The next day I went to mass with my family. Again, not remembering the readings or the homily, I clearly recall the moment I received communion that day. As I walked back to my seat, the now familiar stirring returned, I knelt in prayer, gazing up at the crucifix. Suddenly, my eyes were opened. It was Him. He was Pete. He welcomed me to the place He had called me. He served His children. He brought them joy. He gave them strength. He led us in praise to our God. He was moving within me. Christ in Pete had spent the week by my side, revealing each day, a new way to serve His special angels on this earth while drawing me ever closer in my faith.


For a while following this experience, I tried to understand each moment of that week. I tried to find Him in every word, smile, and laugh. I spent weeks in awe of what He had revealed to me. The idea of looking for Pete had permanently attached itself to my soul, almost like a label on an envelope. Although the fire within me would soon simmer, Pete, and Christ’s presence through him never departed me.

finding pete

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.