Camp Doctor, Year 2

I've come down the mountain for a breather. Laundry, showers, and, you know, having to work. Gotta pay the bills.

The first two weeks at Camp Wojtyla were for middle schoolers. My favorite. #sarcasticfont. The nice part about the middle school camp is that most of their activities take place on the campgrounds, so my job is infinitely easier in terms of treating injuries and doling out meds. The bad part about the middle school camp is that most of their activities take place on the campgrounds, so it's boring. No summit hikes, no rock climbing, no rafting. But it's good to have it both ways. Made for better prayer time and more naps. #pronapper.

Once again, the best part of camp seems to be the counselors--thirty-some college students and seminarians from around the country who give up their summer for these youngsters. They. Are. Awesome.

Sherpa selfie--no stick needed

Also, this year, we have six full-time staff. Six! So things like new water pumps and an organized office and frequent mail runs all happen. Score! The joy of the summer and full-time staff is contagious, from singing while doing dishes to labeling the food all crazy-like.

I've decided that in terms of simplicity and not wrecking my back, hammock camping is for sure the way to go. Look at my tiny little home. Isn't it cute? Bug net, tarp, and a holster for my walkie-talkie. All without killing the wildflowers.

It's true that nature makes a great cathedral--prayer and reflection come super easy at 8,000 feet. And God has been so good moving in my heart the last 2 weeks, drawing me closer to Him and reassuring me in my ways. Looking forward to 2 more weeks, complete with all the fun stuff and no sleep.

Love wins

I’ve been torn on what to say, if anything, in relation to yesterday’s Supreme Court decision. I am not surprised by it, but I am saddened by it. However, I find myself having a much stronger reaction to the social media response to it, and here’s why.

I lament that the left-leaning secular crowds have claimed “Love wins” as their mantra. It sounds so intuitive and so, well, loving, that anyone who disagrees with anything they say is labeled a hater and a bigot. Who doesn’t want love to win? But here’s the truth. Love isn’t 5 appointed judges making some arbitrary decision. Love isn’t being able to be with whomever you wish, for however long you wish, for whatever reason you wish. Love is a man who hung on a cross for three hours after enduring abandonment, mocking, torture, and crucifixion, who then conquered death and rose again. Love is a God who holds us in existence, whose love is so concrete and dynamic that it creates. Love is wanting the good of the other person for his or her own sake (and we could have a whole different discussion about defining “the good”, but suffice it to say it’s not comfort). So, yes, love wins. Love always wins. But I’m reclaiming that phrase for Love Himself, who wants better for us. Who wants us to walk the straight and narrow, which is difficult to be sure, but leads to life to the full.

Furthermore, I’m upset by the subtle, unrecognized discrimination of the so-called “tolerant”. All those people posting rainbows in solidarity with the “persecuted” would never post a cross to support the Christians around the world who are being put to death for their beliefs. They would never post a picture of a church if one were forced out of its tax-exempt status because it held to its beliefs in not holding same-sex union ceremonies. Those posting rainbows are only in solidarity with those who hold their same beliefs, namely that people should be able to do what they want, but only if those people are not Christians who are convinced that God’s law still trumps the law of the land. 

Finally, I’m disturbed by the short-sighted nature of those who are celebrating this decision as a victory. To say that marriage can be defined based on the whims of culture is to lead us farther down a slippery slope from which our society may never recover. This has nothing to do with the “rights” of homosexuals, to things like healthcare benefits, tax status, etc. To redefine marriage is to undermine the foundation of our culture, which is the nuclear family. What is to now stop someone from “marrying” their father, or brother, or dog, because who are you to tell someone who to love? When our children grow up seeing that “marriage” is merely a construct of convenience and enjoyment rather than commitment and covenant, they will extrapolate those values to everything else. I really don’t think it’s alarmist to go down this path. I think it’s ignorant and naïve not to.

So yes, it’s easy to post “Love wins” without thinking about what you are really saying, and it’s easy to say that anyone who disagrees with you is a bigot, but Love has always won and will always win, and Love looks a lot more like this:

Title IX Fail

I'm going to get on my soapbox for a hastily researched, but impassioned rant.

Here's the thing: women's soccer is a real sport. And in the United States, it is really the only soccer (USMNT qualifier thrills notwithstanding).

Case in point: The USWNT has won 4 Olympic golds and 2 World Cup titles (and has been on the podium in every Cup since the first one in 1991). No men's player will EVER come close to touching Kristine Lilly's international cap record of 352, and it's unlikely that any men's player will top Abby Wambach for goals (currently at 182).

And yet, the only media coverage that I saw leading up to this World Cup was over the lawsuit regarding the failure of FIFA to allow grass installation for the matches. The men's World Cup has been played on grass for the last 20 years. Turf not only plays a different game, but is dangerous (heat and injuries are much higher). It's also cheaper. So, turf it is.

Plus who really cares about women's soccer? Not the media. Denver Post coverage for the men's tournament began days before the first kickoff last year. Sunday's paper had one line the day after the women's tournament started, and it was the time of the televised Germany game that day, tucked away in the TV grid. No results from the first two games. No mention of the score to settle from 2011. No preview of the coming weeks.

It. Drives. Me. Crazy.

I realize that not everyone knows the names of the entire roster, or owns a jersey, or saved the picture of former coach Pia Sundhage on their camera from when the team came to Kansas City (because she's only adorable). And I'll also grant that we have lost a little bit of the magic of the Fab Five--women that carried the sport on their shoulders through sheer determination and love of the game. But can we please at least acknowledge that this is a sport? That this World Cup means something? That these women are incredible athletes that deserve far more recognition than they receive?

I would also take another title. Just sayin'.

The Edge of Time

My creative writing final. Not perfect, but I learned a lot while writing it, and a classmate said I'd improved 10-fold. This is a throwback to last summer's camp experience.

I spend most of the morning in the shadow of the cliff, my eyes drawn again and again to the imposing wall as if by some unseen force. It stares back, daring me to a rematch.

Two weeks earlier, I stood in the same shadow, with anticipation instead of wariness. The climbing route is aptly named: The Edge of Time. The edge is what strikes you, no matter how long you spend trying to take it in. A great slab of rock, wedged upright into the ground, as if a huge headstone was cracked in half and this piece was planted as a memorial.

That edge is where I got stuck that first time, forty feet up, my right leg shaking like it was tapping out a telegraph, despite my best efforts to control it. That edge is where I dangled, head heavy under the weight of my white helmet, telling my belayer to lower me down, mortified that the teenage girls had outdone me.

Now I am back, unsure if the possibility of vindication is worth the risk of another defeat. Being the only female on this climbing trip raises the stakes even higher; I can’t be “the girly girl”. I tighten my harness straps around my thighs and tug up hard on the belt loop to make sure it’s snug. My sweaty hands slide over the knots, double checking everything one last time. I turn back to my friend, holding the other end of the rope.

“Belay on?”

“On belay,” he says, indicating he is ready for me to begin.

At least one of us is.

I step closer and lay my palms on the cold granite. Inhale. Exhale. The rope pulls taut into my chest as the belayer takes in slack, forcing me to lean around it. I close my fingers around the first holds and lunge upwards. I settle into a rhythm of reaching, pulling, standing, reminding myself to use my legs, not my arms.

I surge past the point of defeat from two weeks ago, but my victory is short-lived. A few feet higher, I pull myself to standing and reach up yet again. My hands sweep left and right. Nothing. The ledge above me is barely enough to hook my fingernails on. I use my foot to grope for a step to my right, but it is out of reach. I am stuck. Again.

Voices call out from below with encouragement and suggestions, but all I hear is the one in my head telling me I’ve failed. How many more half-hearted attempts before I can throw in the towel? One more?

Resigned, I push up on my toes, pinched in the tight rubber shoes. I lean into the wall and strain upwards, trying to use my momentum to drive me past that ledge. Suddenly I’m 18 inches higher on the wall, not sure how I got here. I hear cheering from below and my fatigue and doubt evaporate. Surging ahead, my adrenaline crashes the same time my fingertips touch the metal anchor at the top. I collapse into the harness, letting it enfold me while I am lowered to the ground.