envelopes.

Having just returned from a week at Young Life's Sharp Top Cove week summer camp, my body is screaming: "YOU ARE NO LONGER IN HIGH SCHOOL!" Thank you, body, for your blunt reminder. Bruised, sore, exhausted and hoarse, I'm having trouble bringing my mind back to Winston-Salem, NC. I keep waking up thinking I should be on the top bunk in a room with 15 sleeping girls.

It is a great privilege to be a Young Life leader; moreover, a Young Life leader in Forsyth County. A great bond exists between the leaders in this city, enough that sometimes it seems to be nothing more than a gift and a joy. Taking kids to camp is one of the single greatest challenges I've ever met, in part due to the physicality of a week of running, jumping, screaming, biking, hiking, blobbing, swimming, competing and staying up late and getting up early. In terms of emotions, the week is also exhausting relating to kids, leaders, and people 24-7. I found that even in sleep I dreamed very vivid dreams of experiences I had had that day or would have later. During the week I confess there were times I counted down to returning home, but now that I am here, comfortable in Winston, a large part of me only wants to return.

The magic of camp lies here: that kids get to be kids for a week and, in that week, they get to hear that life really does hold something for them - that the God of creation loves them, one-to-one, with a great and everlasting love. Watching a high school kid grasp that truth for the first time, and the strange, otherworldly peace it brings, is like the rising sun on the ocean.

A favorite moment was when, on the last morning of camp, all of the high schoolers from Forsyth County, along with leaders, gathered together in a big room on camp. Each kid was given a piece of paper and an envelope so each one could write himself a letter that would be mailed to him or her six months later. We promised that nobody would read it, that they could write anything they wanted. A silent room inhaled and exhaled for fifteen writing minutes. I noticed kids finishing and began walking about the room to pick up the letters. The first person I came to, a very formidable African-American football player, sat there staring at the envelope.

"You need to address it to yourself," I whispered.

"I don't know how."

Suddenly I realized that this kid, and a ton of others, had never been taught to address an envelope. Disappointing though I was in the school systems of America, I sidled up next to this kid and helped him write his name and address in the center of the space. When he had finished, he smiled up at me, handed over the letter, and said, "Thanks, ma'am."

I smiled and moved around the room, squatting down to help ten more girls and guys from all over Winston-Salem address their envelopes; kids from privileged schools and kids from the worst schools in town. For some reason those moments of quiet were such a joy and reminded me of the invaluable childlikeness I keep trying to hold on to.