K-Cup Kindness

Dad never pressured me, but I know he hoped his son, like him, would become an ordained minister. But it wasn’t meant to be.

I did, however, volunteer with Campers for Christ in 1980. Dad’s dream wasn’t totally fulfilled, but he was a man who’d learned to be happy with whatever he got.

Campers for Christ still holds church services at two local state parks. When my turn comes up, I lead the singing (iffy, I admit) and do a devotional. It’s been a great experience. Campers are kind folks who always tell me they enjoy the service. Even though I know that’s largely because they get to come as they are and sit in cozy camper chairs drinking coffee in the outdoors, I’m still amazed every time I’m granted that blessing.

It’s like God’s undeserved grace. I don’t feel worthy, but I’ll take it.

One weekend I experienced a simple, but very poignant, example of the power of that grace. It was long after the service, over a mug of Green Mountain coffee. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been camping myself that weekend.

I’m happy when I camp, and to make myself even happier, I had reserved my site for Sunday night as well. What’s so special about Sunday night? All the campers have gone home and left the grounds to the crickets, an occasional coyote, and a few souls lucky enough to be able to stick around and listen to them.

My friend Brian and his son Andrew were camping with me. They would’ve loved to stay an extra night, but they had to leave Sunday evening. There would be many hours that night that I would wish I had left as well.

As we sat around the fire relishing another roasted hot dog, putting off the time when Brian and Andrew had to leave, we noticed a car pull into an empty site 100 feet from my tent. A young guy carried a crate to the picnic table, ate some food from it, sat there a while, then loaded it up and left. Rather unusual, we said, but I was just happy no one was going to come between me and the crickets that night.

A little later, while Brian was still there, two different cars pulled into the same spot. Guys the same age as the first one got out and looked around. Then one left and the other went back to his car. He started it and turned on his lights. And, just to make the situation weirder, he turned on his wipers. It wasn’t dark, and it wasn’t raining, but he would be prepared for both.

The camper host joined us for a conversation, and it turned to the guy in the car. After about 20 minutes, the car pulled out, windshield finally spic and span.

Brian left soon after, then the camper host. The nearby spot sat vacant again. Did I hear a cricket? But as dusk settled in, two more cars slowly passed the site, turned around, and crept past it again. They drove on out of the loop, but I had a feeling that the show wasn’t over.

Ten o’clock rolled around, bringing no further non-camper sightings. I scorched one more dog and called it a night. I hadn’t been in bed five minutes, though, when I heard the convoy arrive across the road. Then the sound of guys piling out of cars. Soon I heard the unmistakable sound of a tent going up.

The stake pounding stopped a half hour later, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think they would retire anytime soon. And they didn’t. They talked and laughed until 4:30 a.m. In all that time I got three minutes sleep.

I lay on my mattress and simmered till they went to bed. Many things crossed my mind, mostly not edifying. For some reason, the sermon I preached the morning before came to mind. It had a lot to do with God’s undeserved grace to us. So why wasn’t God gracing me with a peaceful night’s sleep? I had been looking forward to it all day long.

I woke up at seven and was too irritated to lie there any longer. I walked to the shower house and hardly needed to turn the dial to hot. On my way back, I saw at least four guys taking down a tent that would have made Barnum and Bailey proud. All of them were dragging. Nice, I thought. I hope they feel as bad as they look.

I don’t like the feeling anger leaves in the pit of my stomach. My stomach wasn’t in the greatest shape anyway from that hot dog nightcap. As I neared my site, I was surprised by what came out of my mouth when I passed my neighbors. It wasn’t nasty. In fact, I pleasantly offered them a cup of coffee from my Keurig machine. (I’m not big on primitive camping anymore.) They said maybe, thanks. I fixed one for myself while they hoisted their barely-used circus tent into one of the vehicles.

They left before I finished my cup, without taking me up on my offer. I wasn’t offended. Maybe they had a guilty conscience and figured I’d poison their drinks. Possibly they just needed to hurry back to work or class. Most likely, though, they needed to go nap so they could stay up all night again.

My coffee was good, but I was aware of something else brewing in my campsite. More particularly, in my heart. I wasn’t mad at them anymore. Not at all. Yes, I was still tired, but I didn’t have that fire in the pit of my stomach. Amazing.

I didn’t need to become an ordained minister to see the power of undeserved grace. Not just getting it, but giving it. All I had to do was volunteer for campground service rotation—and lay awake in my tent one night.