Disasters in Youth Ministry, Chapter 1: Rafting

I’ve been inexplicably upbeat and optimistic for the last couple of days. No idea what that’s about.

I haven’t told a story in a while. Let’s do that. I’ve been making a list of stories and topics about which I want to write. One of the entries is “Youth Ministry Disasters.” I thought of it as one entry, but I’m afraid that would turn into something similar to my overly long, 3 part series on pets (Part 1, 2, and 3). So instead I will take them one at a time.

As many of you know I spent 10 years of my life as a Youth Minister. About half of those years I worked part-time as a Youth Minister, the other half full-time. Over that decade I had some wonderful, life-altering experiences. During those same years I experienced an almost equal number of miscues, mishaps, and misfortunes. They came early and often, and almost always on out of town trips.

In 1999 I took a part-time position at St. James UMC in Florence, AL, my home church. Almost immediately upon my arrival, we planned a white-water rafting trip. We planned to drive to the Cherokee National Forest, just outside of Cleveland, TN, and camp for a night. We would wake the next morning, break camp, and head to the Ocoee River for our rafting adventure.

On a late summer afternoon we loaded the bed of my pick-up truck with sleeping bags, tents, and luggage; covered it with a tarp; loaded kids and adults into my truck and the church van; and headed off toward the mountains of Eastern Tennessee.

The trip up was uneventful. Other than a few complaints about the driving abilities of the chaperone I asked to drive the van, I don’t really remember anything about the journey. My main concerns on the way there were the flapping tarp covering our cargo and the dark and menacing clouds that hung heavily in the sky ahead of us.

We pulled into the campground a couple of hours before sunset. Plenty of time to set up camp. We drove through the campground looking for a site suitable for our multiple-tent set up. We didn’t find one.

Luckily, I knew of another nearby campground. So we set out for the next campground. We drove through the site, and just as before. There were no available sites. My frustration was starting to grow. It was now about an hour and a half before dark.

I sat scratching my head and wishing the 3 girls riding in my truck would stop giggling for just a moment. My head scratching changed to temple massaging. I happened to remember that our rafting outfitter advertised a campground adjacent to their building. With little more than a sliver of hope (and not much more daylight than that) we set on our third attempt to find a campsite.

We reached the campground and found a spot that would accommodate our 4-5 tents. We jumped out of our vehicles and began unloading our bags and equipment. We were now less than an hour from sunset. I looked at the sky. The clouds were building. I ordered everyone to begin setting up tents before we did anything else. We had to beat the rain.

Almost immediately the rain began to fall. Luckily it was just a light mist. Simply an annoyance.

The kids started unzipping bags, spreading out canvas tents, and assembling tent poles. I began, with help, setting up the 6-8-person tent I in which I planned to spend the night. The tent belonged to someone else. There were, of course, no instructions.

The mist became a drizzle.

I struggled with the poles for a few minutes before I finally figured out the layout. A couple of the kids helped me put the poles together and insert them in the correct slots. After we got a couple of them in place a group of girls walked over.

“Scott, we can’t get our tent put together.”

“Does it have instructions?”

“Yes.”

“Did you read them?”

“No.”

I gave them a look that clearly (to me) said, “Go read the directions!” Apparently they didn’t speak “evil-eye.” They stood and stared. Finally I told them verbally what my look should have conveyed.

The drizzle became a sprinkle.

We raced to my truck and removed from the bed all of the luggage, sleeping bags, and other things we wanted to remain dry. We put them in the cab of the truck and into the van.

Any of you who have assembled a tent know that it can be an irritating activity. Putting up a tent you’ve never seen before, without instructions, is truly an exercise in frustration. Doing so while racing against nightfall on a muddy field with rain sprinkling down multiplies the frustration about 100 fold. Add teenagers into the mix and it becomes almost unbearable.

My group was very close to having our tent up and ready. We were only a couple of poles and a few stakes away from being habitable. The girls came back.

“We still can’t do it.”

Luckily one of our guys was an aspiring Eagle Scout. He had his 2-person tent up, his sleeping bag unrolled and ready, and had gathered a pile of firewood. He volunteered to help the girls. I thanked God for Boy Scouts.

The sprinkle became a steady rain.

Finally our tent was up. We got our gear from the truck and/or van and began setting up inside our tent. I unrolled and spread my sleeping bag. I left the duffle bag containing my clothes in the truck for safe (and dry) keeping. I finished arranging my sleeping space and turned to exit the tent. The girls were back.

“Our tent is wet.”

“Is it leaking?”

“We don’t know.”

“Did you check for a leak?”

“No.”

I followed them back to their tent to check the moisture levels.

The rain fell harder.

The inside of the tent was wet. There was a small leak at the peak of the tent. I told them they were lucky I brought duct tape. They did not look pleased. Finally one of them spoke up.

“Can we swap tents?”

I started to say no, but I realized the fight would be fruitless.

“OK, fine.”

The guys and I went to our tent and removed our gear. We repaired the leak with the afore mentioned duct tape and toweled off the nylon floor. We rearranged our bedding in our new, smaller space.

Lightning flashed and thunder began to roll.

At this point everyone was tired and hungry and wet and grumpy. A few of the moms had the foresight to pack a cooler with bread and lunch meat for our dinner. Since the deluge of precipitation had not stopped, I took the cooler from tent to tent to allow the residents to prepare their meal.

As I distributed the bread and sandwich meat each tent bombarded me with complaints and questions. (From everyone except the Boy Scout. Thank God for Boy Scouts.)

“When is it going to stop raining?” “Is this all we have to eat?” “My shoes are wet.” “My pillow feels damp.” “Can’t we go find something else to eat?” “Are we still going to be able to raft tomorrow?” “Somebody ate all of the turkey. I have to have turkey.”

I smiled and tried to answer each annoying face as pleasantly as possible. All the while my blood pressure climbed. I began to feel my heart beat in the top of my head.

Finally everyone had food and I returned to my tent and sat on my sleeping bag with my sandwich. My wet sleeping bag. It didn’t take long for me to feel the water soaking through my pants. Then a drop of water hit my nose. The leak was back. My stuff was soaked.

About the time I realized my sleeping bag was, for all intents and purposes, unusable someone complained about something. I really don’t remember what it was. As soon as I heard the voice I recognized the tone as “whiny ass.” (That is my name for the tone of voice, not a person. Even though I can think of more than a few youth over the years that would have fit the name also.) My eyes narrowed. My head began to pound as my blood pressure soared. My vision tunneled. Everything seemed to turn red. Finally my anger and frustration boiled over and I screamed an answer to whatever inane complaint the whiny tone had spoken. I quickly stood from my soaked sleeping bag and stormed out into the storm.

The rain had let up, and I spent half an hour or so wandering the camp ground. Eventually I went back to the tent and told them I was sleeping in the truck. I grabbed my pillow, which had remained dry, and headed to the truck.

I climbed into the drivers seat, locked the doors, and turned on the ignition. I turned on the radio and tried in vain to find some sort of music that didn’t involve a banjo. No luck. I turned off the radio and thought seriously about cranking the truck and leaving.

I tried to call home to talk to Misty. No signal. (These were the days before “Can you hear me now.”) I threw my phone into the passenger seat and cried. After a few minutes I moved to the passenger seat and tried to sleep. I sat there, half reclined; listening to the rain hit the roof and windshield and mentally wrote my letter of resignation.

Eventually, I fell asleep. I woke up several times during the night (the front seat of a Dodge Dakota is not the most comfortable place to sleep,) but usually had little trouble going back to sleep. I don’t remember what I dreamed, but I’m pretty sure it involved whiny teenage girls and water torture.

The next morning we woke to a muggy, foggy scene. The moms had packed some eggs and bacon. The Boy Scout brought a Coleman stove. (Thank God for Boy Scouts!) We ate a hot breakfast, broke camp in the mud, and then headed to the river.

I don’t remember the rafting. I don’t remember the drive home. But something during one or both of those activities changed my mind. Maybe it was time that healed the wounds. Nevertheless, at some point I realized that if this was the worst Youth Ministry could throw at me then I would be just fine.

It wasn’t until a couple of years later that I realized this was NOT the worst that Youth Ministry could throw at me.