And then there were five

One period of the penultimate Friday in and one of my Junior Counselors looks at me and says, "You have just over five-and-a-half days. What can possibly be going through your mind right now?"

I looked at him and said, "It doesn't matter. I'm here for the kids. I have to make it the best five-and-a-half days of their lives and whatever I'm dealing with has to wait and frankly doesn't even matter."

The weird thing is that I hadn't thought about it one bit all day -- save the passing comment of "Six more!" to one of the directors at the start of the day -- but as I walked away from the archery range, I slowed my pace and actually had to hold back some tears.

Truth is, I'm sad. It's hard not to be. I knew I would be, but I was never entirely sure how I would react.

My entry from earlier this week prompted a few comments to me privately including that camp is not merely a hat I wear, but it is part of me. It is not a place I go or a thing I do, it is me. And this comment is dead on.

So I'm not moving on from a phase of my life or something I've done -- a lot, but I'm moving on from me.

If everything I've done in life is a chapter in the book of me, camp is part of the glue that holds the binding together and the cover on. This is not a chapter I'm closing, for it will always be with me. I'm just sad that the glue is starting to set.

But I only have two days to think about it, because come Monday, it's back to giving these kids the best 5 days of their lives. One of these kids next week will look back at it in 8, 10, 12, 15 years and mark it as when they decided that camp would become part of them, and the best way for me to make that happen is just to do what I do and be the best counselor I can be.

And I will be.

I always am.