By Kelcie Huffstickler

From the time I was going into seventh grade until the summer after I finished high school, I went to the same church camp. The camp had different locations around the country. With my youth group, I attended the one in Carlinville, Illinois; in Talladega, Alabama; and in Panama City Beach, Florida. The locations were different, but each year we knew what to expect: the same crazy, spontaneous college-age staff; the same hilarious, talented, juggling emcee; the same anointed and inspiring worship team; and the same fiery, dynamic, cross-shaved-in-his-head minister.
“Wild Week,” as the camp was called, was one of the most defining parts of my teenage years. I think back on those weeks at camp and I have enough memories to fill a book, not a blog post.

Like the crazy, out-of-control water fight we had outside the dorms. The best part of that one was that all our youth leaders were involved, and my dad (who was an adult leader) still tells the story of getting doused by a full trash can by two prank-loving adult women.

Or, the time me and my girlfriends decided to join other youth groups around the cafeteria, each playing their own game of “Pass the Peach.” Except “Pass the Peach” really wasn’t a game at all but an attempt to do the most disgusting, germ-infested thing you’d ever done as a Christian teenage girl. It was where you passed a juicy, canned peach slice from your mouth, directly to your friend’s, who passed it to her friend’s, and so on and so on. We thought we were the biggest dare-devils on Earth, but thinking about it now just makes me gag.

Or, when our circle of friends would pound our fists on the table shouting “WE ARE TABLE ONE, TABLE ONE, TABLE ONE. WE ARE TABLE ONE, WHERE IS TABLE TWO?” And wait for another group across the cafeteria to pound out the next verse.

As good as those memories are and as much as they make me smile, they’re just shadows compared to the real limelight of camp: the church services. It’s amazing how nearly 1,000 high school kids, amped up on Red Bull and classic “youth group adrenaline,” can become as serious and focused as the most mature adult crowd, given the right reason. And these services were it.

The last night of camp always included a communion service, with a more reflective and hushed tone than the rest. As a young teenage girl, I would walk into those services, silent along with hundreds of my peers, and often be moved to tears by the presence of God. The worship team would be playing. A large wooden cross might be displayed at the front. And the prayers lifted up by hundreds of “Wild Week” staffers could be felt impacting us each as we entered.

I, along with so many others, would leave those services changed. I was never a “bad” girl. I didn’t need a dramatic behavior change. What I needed – what I still need today – was for my heart to be drawn near to the Father’s. And on those nights, it was, in a mysterious, indescribable way.

When I think back on my years at camp, I’m thankful God chose to make them part of my faith story. It’s interesting because, as an adult, I now can see imperfections in what I thought – at the time – was the most perfect place on Earth. But what’s clear is that camp was exactly what I needed at that time in my life. It kept me on the “straight and narrow.” It enriched my life during years when most everything else depleted. And in so many ways, it made me who I am today.

Kelcie Huffstickler is a small town mama with a heart for the world. She lives in the same small town where she was born and raised, now with her hubby 

and two little girls. They enjoy living blocks away from family members, feeling safe if they forget to lock their doors, and visiting the occasional Friday night catfish buffet. She hopes to instill in her girls a sense of pride about their southern, small town upbringing, while at the same time giving them a Biblical view of the world. To read more about her small town, faith-filled life, visit her blog at thisbeautifulinheritance.com or follow her on Twitter.