The Camping Trip

I remember one day sitting in my seventh-grade classroom, looking out the window at what was our school campus. There were the old chicken coops, a few small trailers that had been hauled in behind the school to make room for more students, and a metal slide that seemed about three stories high. On a hot day, that thing could fry the hide off your legs before you ever made it to the bottom.

Beside it stood a set of monkey bars that, as best I can remember, averaged about one broken arm or leg a week. This was back before playground equipment came with warning labels, rubber padding, and a safety committee. Apparently, our safety plan was simply, “Try not to fall.”

I was sitting there taking in all this scenery, probably paying absolutely no attention to whatever the teacher was saying, when there was a knock at the classroom door.

Two men in Boy Scout uniforms asked if any boys interested in joining the Boy Scouts would like to step out into the hallway.

Now, what they said was, “Anybody interested in Boy Scouts can come out.”

What my seventh-grade brain heard was, “Anybody who would like to get out of class for a few minutes may leave immediately.”

So naturally, I felt called to investigate.

They started telling us about camping, hiking, earning merit badges, and all the things Boy Scouts did. I was mildly interested. Then they said anybody who came to the first meeting would get a fire starter.

Well, now we were talking.

I don't remember exactly what that little thing was made of, but I remember thinking, You mean you're going to give a seventh-grade boy something specifically designed to start fires?

I was in.

I went home, told Mom about it, and convinced her to take me to the meeting. The first meeting went pretty well, and I decided to join.

The next week I had to choose a patrol.

There were two choices: Eagle Patrol and Panther Patrol.

Now, if you've ever watched one of those cheesy 1980s movies where you can identify everybody's personality within the first thirty seconds, you could have figured these two groups out pretty quickly.

Eagle Patrol was the organized bunch. They had five or six boys, their stuff was together, they were working on merit badges, studying their books, planning their camping trip, and generally behaving like people who might someday become productive members of society.

Then there was Panther Patrol.

Panther Patrol had two older boys, probably ninth or tenth graders, who had perfected the appearance of looking busy without actually accomplishing anything.

I looked at Eagle Patrol.

Then I looked at Panther Patrol.

One group looked responsible.

The other group looked fun.

So, of course, another boy and I joined Panther Patrol.

For the next several weeks, I thought I had made the greatest decision of my young life.

While Eagle Patrol studied merit badges, organized equipment, checked tents, and prepared for the upcoming camping trip, Panther Patrol had developed another curriculum entirely.

Whenever an adult leader walked by, we'd quickly open our Scout books and look deeply committed to personal development.

As soon as he disappeared, the books closed.

Our patrol leaders taught us useful wilderness survival skills such as making fart noises with our armpits and providing two younger boys with information about girls that I am reasonably certain wasn't covered in the official Boy Scout handbook.

We were having a wonderful time.

No work.

No preparation.

No responsibility.

And then came the camping trip.

That's when the chickens came home to roost, except we probably would have eaten the chickens.

My parents dropped me off, and reality arrived shortly afterward.

The Panther Patrol leader and his assistant had beautiful dome tents their parents had bought them.

My buddy and I asked where our tent was.

“In the patrol box.”

The Panther Patrol box was a giant plywood box containing all our camping and cooking equipment.

There was just one small problem.

We had never opened it.

While Eagle Patrol had spent the previous weeks checking their equipment, we had apparently been too busy advancing the science of armpit noises.

We opened that box, and I am pretty sure something inside opened its eyes and looked back at us.

The pup tents had been put away wet after the previous camping trip and contained enough mold to manufacture antibiotics for a small nation.

The pots and pans hadn't been cleaned either. Roaches and assorted woodland creatures had apparently established permanent residency.

We went to our patrol leaders and asked what we were supposed to do.

They basically said, “We've got our tent and enough Pop-Tarts to make it through the weekend. You two will have to figure something out.”

And figure it out we did.

Badly.

Our little pup tent stayed damp. Everything smelled like mold. We had almost nothing to eat except a few candy bars my buddy had brought.

Eventually hunger overcame pride, and I went to the adult leaders asking for food.

They reminded me that each patrol was supposed to work together and prepare its own meals.

That sounded considerably better during the meeting than it did while I was hungry.

By the time my parents picked me up, I looked like I'd survived a wilderness documentary.

We stopped at McDonald's in Richlands, Virginia, and as a seventh grader I ate three cheeseburgers, a large order of fries, and a large drink.

I didn't eat that meal.

I inhaled it.

Then I fell asleep on the way home.

The next day, after recovering from what I considered my near-death wilderness experience, I began telling Mom and Dad my story.

Naturally, I presented myself as the innocent victim.

I explained how poorly our patrol leaders had treated us, how the adults wouldn't rescue us, how terrible the equipment was, and generally made a case that somebody needed to defend their baby boy.

There was only one problem.

My parents knew me.

They knew I had a gift for telling a completely true story from the exact angle that made me look best.

So instead of joining my pity party, they asked me a question.

“When you joined, why did you choose Panther Patrol?”

Well...

Then came another question.

“While Eagle Patrol was working every week and getting ready for the camping trip, what were you doing?”

Well...

Before long they said something I didn't particularly appreciate at the time:

“You knew what you were doing. You were having fun instead of preparing. You chose it, so you can't blame everybody else now because there were consequences.”

That's not what a seventh-grade boy wants to hear.

I wanted justice.

Or at least another cheeseburger.

But looking back, my parents gave me something much more valuable than sympathy.

They let me learn.

And sometimes God does the same thing.

Galatians 6:7 says, “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.”

That isn't simply a threat. It's a spiritual reality.

Sometimes the harvest of our choices becomes one of God's greatest teaching tools.

We see something similar with the rich young ruler in Mark 10. He came running to Jesus wanting eternal life. When Jesus exposed the one thing that controlled his heart, Scripture says, “Disheartened by the saying, he went away sorrowful, for he had great possession” (Mark 10:22).

Notice what Jesus didn't do.

He didn't chase him down and say, “Wait! Maybe I made that sound too difficult.”

Jesus loved him, told him the truth, and allowed him to walk away with the weight of his decision.

Sometimes conviction needs room to work.

Then I think about the prodigal son in Luke 15.

The younger son demanded his inheritance, left home, wasted everything, and eventually found himself feeding pigs and wishing he could eat what they were eating.

His father didn't follow him into the far country with a wagonload of groceries.

He didn't finance his rebellion.

He didn't remove every consequence of his decisions.

The son had to reach the place where Scripture says, “But when he came to himself...” (Luke 15:17).

That's an important little phrase.

Sometimes coming to ourselves requires discovering where our own road actually leads.

The pigpen accomplished something prosperity hadn't.

It made him remember home.

And when that boy finally headed home, his father wasn't standing there saying, “I told you so.”

He was watching for him.

He ran to him.

He embraced him.

He restored him.

That's the balance we sometimes struggle to understand.

Love doesn't always mean rescue.

Sometimes love welcomes someone home. Sometimes love helps carry a burden. Sometimes love extends grace.

But sometimes love has to stand back and allow consequences to accomplish what our words cannot.

Hebrews 12:6 reminds us,”For the Lord disciplines the one he loves.”

God's discipline isn't evidence that He has stopped loving us. Sometimes it is evidence that He loves us too much to let us comfortably continue down a road that's destroying us.

There are also times when we want to rescue somebody we love from every uncomfortable circumstance. But we need wisdom to know whether we're actually helping them or interrupting something God is using to get their attention.

My parents could have called the Scout leaders.

They could have blamed Panther Patrol.

They could have convinced me that I was an innocent victim of the Great Boy Scout Camping Disaster.

Instead, they basically told me:

“You picked Panther Patrol. You watched Eagle Patrol prepare. You knew what you were doing. Now learn from it.”

And I did.

I learned that preparation matters.

I learned choices have consequences.

I learned moldy tents smell terrible.

And I learned that three McDonald's cheeseburgers taste mighty good after two days of living on candy bars.

But years later, I can see an even bigger lesson.

Sometimes we pray, “Lord, get me out of this.”

And sometimes God answers, “I'm going to get you through it, because there's something here I need to teach you.”

Grace doesn't always remove consequences.

Sometimes grace uses them.

And occasionally the road back home starts in a wet pup tent, a pigpen, or wherever we finally come to ourselves and realize:

I knew what I was doing. I chose this road. Lord, help me come home