I kill plants, not with malice or discontent, but rather ill attention and neglect. Growing up in a city, I wasn’t the kind of kid who longed for the country and wide open spaces, and it wasn’t that I didn’t like. . . visiting my Uncle's farm, for instance, it was just that I would have rather been inside reading a book or in the fire-escape stair well of our high rise, watching the cars flash past on the free way.

I kill plants through my indifference, because I’m not paying attention; and so you may understand my surprise, when the other day I noticed that the three plants on my windowsill were still alive. It’s been over two years since Ranger Bob gave them to me as a birthday present, and somehow I’ve manage to water them enough to make sure they have enough sun. They’re alive, and frankly, I like seeing them there perched near my kitchen counter. They’ve more than doubled in size. It’s satisfying watching them grow. Now, I should admit to you, that’s they’re succulents, and don’t need much water: an aloe and a jade plant. I probably water them once a week, but somehow, magically, it’s enough.

About a week ago now Lisa Giebel, the wife of the week’s camp doctor came up to me one afternoon and said, “You know, I was thinking about it, and besides me, you’ve probably cooked more food for my kids than anyone else. I think that’s pretty cool.”

Lisa and her kids have been coming to camp for a long time, and not just summer camp, but also with their church, during Bible Camps, Pathfinder Camps, and Family Camps. I’ve gotten to watch her girls get bigger -- grow older. And along the way I discovered that I got to make a difference in their lives. It didn’t take much, a few green beans, some mashed potatoes, the occasional root beer float, and somehow, magically, that’s enough.

So much of the impact we make on campers’ lives happens when we’re not paying attention, when we’re sweeping floors or folding laundry. It happens while we’re playing basketballs with them or teaching them how to shoot arrows. Their lives are changed when we least expect it, when we’re busy doing something else: watering horses, singing silly songs.

Because the truth is, we really don’t do much here Big Lake. We just take a few kids for rides on the lake. We give them some cookies once in awhile. We finger paint on construction paper, and play a few rounds of capture the flag from time to time, then by some means or another, while we’re not looking, their lives are changes, and somehow, magically, the sweeping, and baking, the teaching, and singing, the nighttime worships, and games of kickball are enough.