IN THOSE DAYS AT CAMP TEL HAI

Mel Leaman

I felt rather pensive as I left the first session with my spiritual director. I had been feeling lost, but our meeting did spark a ray of hope that someday whatever part of me was missing might be found. Snowflakes danced in the blustery winds of that cold December day, yet warmth caressed my soul.

As the car rounded a corner, I saw in the distance, just beyond the next cleanly shaved field, a strangely familiar view. On drawing closer, all became clear. I had been here before. Some 45 years ago I had made a turn down this country road with a group of other young boys headed for Camp Tel Hai.

In fact, a directional sign indicated the obvious: Camp Tel Hai still served the surrounding religious community. Even this summer children had scrambled out of church vans and buses, or Dad’s and Mom’s SUV, to spend a week meant for the enrichment of body and spirit.

I vaguely remembered memorizing countless Bible verses to qualify for a discount at some camp. Was this the one? Nostalgia struck, and I made the turn.

Memories drifted across my mind as the car nosed its way another mile or so toward the camp: the little boy in his cabin feeling homesick and whimpering his way into the night’s rest; an early morning, teary-eyed confession of another young camper who had wet the bed; Bible time in the big building. The layout of the grounds had changed significantly, but I felt a sense of homecoming on finding that my old "Oak" cabin was still standing. That’s what oaks do so well.

I was most interested in finding the swimming pool. This is not to say that memories of free swim were that fond, but they were the most vivid. The pool had been moved indoors, adjacent to a new gym. There is now a lake where the pool once hosted hordes of excited boys and girls on hot summer days.

It was there that I lost my identity. I had a sibling three years my elder. In his presence, Melvin became David’s little brother. In those days, he could do everything better than I could. He had no inhibitions about showing-off his skills—and these were particularly spectacular at pool side. It wasn’t that I didn’t take pride in a periodic flip off the low board or a dive off the high; it was just that what I did paled in comparison to the risky contortions Dave incorporated into his dives.

He had one move no other person in the entire camp would try. Even the big teenage lifeguards could not work up the courage to attempt this stunt. It was the handstand, and off the high board, at that! While others waited anxiously on the ladder, Dave would walk slowly to the end of the board, all eyes upon him. The girls would gasp as he curled his legs skyward and squeezed the edge of the board with his fingers.

He’d held the position just long enough to ensure onlookers he was in complete control, then push off to the blue waters below. In that moment, Dave was the envy of every young man who had enough testosterone to know he had been knocked down another rung on the ladder of survival of the fittest.

Dave was always in control. He did it well. I rarely got the winning side of the wishing bone. It was futile for me to start an argument, pick a fight, state an opposing opinion, or attempt to win a game. Dave always had the final word, the bigger fist, the right answer, and the better hand. If he really didn’t have any of the above, he faked it well enough for me to concede. The roles were scripted. I gave in; he won. Dave made the decisions; I simply followed. He knew; I never knew.

Even our faith journeys fit the pattern. Dave was the apologist who never faltered; I felt every question could make me fall. He thinks; I feel. Dave spent the last 35 years as a therapist; I have been a school teacher, a youth director, a therapist, a pastor, and now a professor.

In the earlier years I hated him, looked up to him, and aspired to be like him. In the later years, from my senior year in high school to now, I have loved him deeply. He became the friend who encouraged me to step into some of the most positive defining moments of my life.

I have had such respect for him that only in the past 10 years did I feel entitled and differentiated enough to share a truly reciprocal, give-and-take relationship with him. These days we set aside a day each year to share our life experiences. The packages are basically the same. He remains steady and I still stutter, but we both see the gift of the other.

In those days, I experienced periodic respites from the rigors of sibling rivalry and the struggle of being Dave’s brother. There by the pool I surrendered to the benefits of our hierarchical relationship. I was proud to be identified with him. I imagined that those who saw me by his side recognized my own potential for greatness. I was esteemed by association.

Admittedly, self was sacrificed on the altar of enmeshment, but Melvin would be lost for only a season. He would be found some other day at some other place—just not at Camp Tel Hai.

—Mel Leaman, West Grove, Pennsylvania, is Assistant Professor of Religion at Lincoln University. Leaman was raised in a Mennonite home, then on becoming Christian education and youth director at Asbury United Methodist Church, Maitland, Florida, joined the UMC. A minister in Ohio and Pennsylvania 1981-1999, he received his M.Div. from the Methodist Theological School in Ohio and his D.Min. in marriage and family from Eastern Baptist (now Palmer) Theological Seminary in 1990. He can be reached at jmleaman@comcast.net.