Yet Another Deleted Chapter, Broken Up Into Bits
Part III: paying attention to what's not being said that needs to be said
If you’re new around here, we’re in the middle of a short, four-part series involving a deleted chapter from my next book, Church Camp. If you haven’t already, read Part I and Part II so you can be caught up to speed — and look for the fourth part of the series later this week!
Now here’s the thing: when you have a bird’s eye view, it’s easy to see the whole picture. It’s easy to taste what’s wrong with the meal, after it’s all been laid out on the table in front of you. It’s easy to see what’s wrong with the latest blockbuster hit when you’re lounging in a theater chair, taking it all in. It’s easy to read what’s wrong with an essay or an entire book when you’re just consuming it for pleasure.1
When it came to this particular section, all the bones were there: This stars a story I once told (a lot) at church camp. It includes a bit of dialogue. It speaks a language of camp (unlike the previous scene, which didn’t have a thing to do with camp).
But there’s a whole lot that’s not being said that needs to be said.
Because you know what I think is most intriguing about this excerpt? Slight mentions of regret and doubt and excessive campiness; reflections from a girl who stuck to the script and followed the rules because she didn’t know another way was possible.
That’s what I find most interesting about this section.
But maybe it’s just me. Check it out?
For some, creation comes through a kitchen blender. The first time I ever gave such a talk at camp, I told the only story my twenty-two-year-old mind could think of at the time: a story of craving a snack after a long day of learning, when my young elementary-aged self felt ravenous for food. My siblings and I would heat up frozen pretzels from Costco, leftover Chinese food, a bag of popcorn. When we felt particularly hungry, though, we pulled the blender out from the back of the cupboard; into it went ice, berries, bananas, milk; ice cream, whip cream honey; eggs, cinnamon, carrots. Our list of potential ingredients was endless. We experimented to our heart’s content, dumping it all into the Kitchen-Aid blender.
“Sometimes that milkshake was horrible, the worst of the worst when it came to the art of experimentation.” This I’d say from the front of the stage, the sounds of a blender woven into a story of my childhood: Whirr! Bzzzz! Gadagadagadagada! My eyes grew large, face wholly animated. My feet hopped across the stage, fingers pretending to push the buttons of an invisible machine on an invisible kitchen counter in front of me. “But sometimes that milkshake was exactly what my brother and sister and I were looking for. Sometimes we believed that milkshake the world’s best creation. And sometimes that milkshake was good, because ‘good’ is sometimes, in fact, the most powerful word of all. For ‘good’ is creation. ‘Good’ is God.”
In front of a roaring campfire pit, three hundred young children heard a story of gross milkshake meets best milkshake meets a most creative God. Eventually, the story of a blender brought about transition sentences that ushered in realizations of a God who spoke goodness over and into and through creation - of a Creator who speaks goodness over and into and through them. Ours was a Genesis, of the book, of ourselves, and of the week that lay ahead of us. Of all that might happen if we said yes.
But what of the yeses that now bring regret?
I think about those early years of speaking, when I stood on stage giving the “opener” talk that first night at camp. Before I was allowed to hold the mic, the instructions were clear: welcome kids to camp and to “the best week of their lives.” Sometimes, I’d recount favorite moments I saw around camp that day: a student who dove headfirst for all twelve bouncy balls during a massive game of Steal the Bacon. A team whose cheer was so above and beyond, so extra, so enthusiastic and campy that my equally enthusiastic and campy self didn’t quite know how to respond. Sometimes, the highlights of the day would lead to a myriad of invitations: an invitation to open their eyes and see the beauty present all around them. To stare, for just a minute, at the redwood trees and at the beachball-blue color of the sky. To breathe in the stillness of everything around them, the stillness that is always there if they actually take some time to stop and pause and breathe it all in. Sometimes, depending on the audience, that first talk would merely involve an imaginary blender paired alongside a most real Creator.
But never did it include an ounce of doubt, not of God and not the ways of God I had been chosen to promote from the front stage. There, God loved everyone who voted red, who didn’t ask too many questions, and who kept on loving the sinner just as long as they hated the sin. There, I stuck to the script. I did what I was told. I followed the rules.
Contrary to popular belief, I welcome your input — even if you don’t agree with the analysis in the previous section! Do we need to pay attention to what’s not being said?
What I’m reading: I am a huge fan of Dani Shapiro, in general. But seeing as I’ve entirely been a consumer of her memoir writing, I feel like I’m getting to know a whole new Dani through her fiction writing. As it goes, Signal Fires does not disappoint. Just as she delves deep into her characters in nonfiction writing, she does the same with those who dot the pages of this book as well. Far from one-dimensional, they are multi-faceted individuals.
What I’m growing: I wouldn’t say things are growing in the garden right now as much as they’re in the process of dying (but still producing, nonetheless). Today I harvested cauliflower, zucchini, beets, and another bucket or two of tomatoes. I dream of hosting a tomato party,2 complete with bruschetta, chips and salsa, gazpacho, and a little bit of marinara-making in the process, but that post-Covid fatigue is real and long-lasting.
Listening to our bodies is a good thing, I’d say.
Cara
Book club, am I right?
Vegetable parties are kind of my jam, I guess. Remember the artichoke party?