It's been almost 20 years ago now I guess. We were sitting in a leadership team meeting. I was the director of the camp at the time and leading the meeting. We were brainstorming ways to honor one of our employee's upcoming work anniversaries.
Let me tell you a little about this employee. We were a year round wilderness program for kids with various struggles in their lives. They stayed with us for a year while they fought and screamed and cried their troubles away. Or - at least - gave it their best shot. This was almost entirely outdoors, living in structures they built in the middle of the wilderness with their counselors. It was a challenging job for everyone. But rewarding. I am just now - two decades later - beginning to experience the kind of fulfillment in my work I experienced back then. Mom Gus did the laundry for the kids. Every week she cycled through the bedding and clothes of every student in the camp - 60 of them. You can only imagine how dirty laundry can get under the wearing of kids living in the wilderness. Mom Gus was very particular about how and when this laundry was to arrive and be picked up. And she had a way of making sure you knew it. You could say Gus had a bit of a grumpy side to her. Actually, it's more accurate to say it was quite the blessing when you caught a glimpse of Gus's pleasant side. You always had the feeling Gus was living out a bit of a tough life. But you also kinda had the feeling we were the family that made up the part of her life she'd call good. Even if she didn't always know how to say that to us. That's true of some people, you know. They sometimes don't treat you the way you think kindness should look because they really haven't ever seen kindness look the way you've seen it look. So anyways - how on earth to honor Gus on her big day? Let's name the laundry house after her, I suggested. Everyone around the conference room table nodded yes. A few may have shouted yes. It was clear we had the right idea. Then someone suggested that we don't actually own the buildings at camp. We lease them. And maybe we aren't allowed to name buildings after people. Maybe we're not, I said, but we're going to. And we did. Our Business Manager had a beautiful sign made. It said, 'The Mom Gus Laundry House.' I'll never forget the day we presented that to Gus in front of the whole camp - staff and kids. Her smile. And even tears. She saw kindness that day the way some of us are blessed to see it all the time. Gus saw love. The camp has been gone now about ten years. All closed up. Gus has been gone about as long I guess. Yesterday, a young man who'd been at the camp just before it closed went back to visit. He must be in his late 20s now. No longer a kid, he roamed through the woods. Reminiscing. I'm sure replaying some of the childish scenes that played out while he lived there. He shared pictures of his visit. As I scrolled through them - as I did my own reminiscing - I was sad. Sad to see the wooden structures all collapsed into splinters now. The brick ovens - nothing but mounds of debris. The neatly manicured campsites all overgrown with vegetation. This was nothing like I remembered. But then came the picture of The Mom Gus Laundry House. There was that sign. Still fixated to Gus's house. In an instant I remembered Gus's smile that day. I remembered those happy tears Gus had. I'm in my own tears now. The woods can fall down - but the memory of a smile never will. Especially when you imagine it was someone's biggest smile. I got to thinking. We live in a world where people make million dollar donations to get their name on an arena. Or a dorm. I wonder if any of that means as much as The Mom Gus Laundry House meant to Gus, who didn't give a dime. Gus gave the only things she had. Her blood. Her sweat. And her tears. And more than any of us probably knew it - her love. Yesterday, I found myself thinking, I don't care if I ever have a building named after me in this life. But oh how I want to name a few more after the people in my life. Maybe we should all do that. Maybe it's the garage. Maybe it's the shed. Maybe it's a room in the house or in the church or at the office. Maybe it's a chair or a table. I just think we should go around hanging big frickin signs that say this is yours. And - maybe hanging them most for the people who see themselves as worth so little. We are hanging this because we see you. We see through the struggle. We see how hard you fight through it every day to see us. Here's your sign. A sign that outlasts a whole lot of collapsing. And maybe a sign that heals a lot that has already collapsed.
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Robert "Keith" CartwrightI am a friend of God, a dad, a runner who never wins, but is always searching for beauty in the race. Archives
May 2024
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