Winter Retreat '07
Youth Group,
I'm taking a Creative Writing Non-Fiction class at Rutgers right now, and every week, we are asked to submit 2-4 pages of original non-fiction writing. Here is what I wrote about this past Winter Retreat.
And for those of you who are not going to read very carefully, as a note, this ends with a realization of hope. Hope in what what I know God has in store for this Youth Group, if only we'd spend time on your knees praying... and listening.
Narrative:
I had never liked that gymnasium-like complex they’d been assigning to us. The one with the comely 옴돌 rooms on the side—the girls always got those—and the spartan barracks across the way—to which the boys were always resigned. That didn’t really bother me so much, boys needed to suffer a little. Let’s call it a character-building exercise.
It was the ‘sanctuary’ that least fit my fancy. Perhaps it was those white plastic chairs—the ones that you could buy at Costco for 39¢ each—strewn around an area illuminated by that harsh metallic light that fell from those industrial-sized florescent lights, giving everything a putrid green hue. Or maybe it was because the pictures that adored the walls had not even been framed; for the only thing keeping Peter from falling into a fountain of water was scotch tape. No, it was probably the fact that we took up less than half of this vast disinterested space. A space that looked more like a warehouse that one would use to store nuclear missiles, than it did a sanctuary.
But there we were, Winter Camp 2007, gathered together in a nuclear missile silo. The jerry-built partitions that usually attempted to separate the room were pushed to the side, giving me an unhindered view of the entire Youth Group, who were scattered around the room.
We had asked them to pray. They’d been allowed to walk about the room, with the hopes that perhaps if they “walked with God” literally, they would eventually decide to walk with God spiritually. Every couple minutes, 목산님 would pick up the microphone and give them a prayer topic: unsaved family and friends, the church building project, our own personal walks with God. We’d pray about it together, and then after five minutes, he’d conclude in prayer, and proffer up another topic to pray about, trying to shepherd this mass of people and their thoughts—their prayers.
They had been told to pray, but it was dubious to determine which among them were actually praying. Many of them had chosen to walk about the room. Lou was shuffling across the room, practicing what could only have been a long extinct disco move. Next time I checked on him, he was sitting down at the back of the room, fidgeting in his chair as if trying to increase his receptivity toward the Holy Spirit, like you would with a TV antennae. Some settled in a spot. Nena found a seat on the pew along the side of the wall. Every once in a while, she’d lift her head as if to check whether anyone had fallen asleep, and when she was satisfied that others were praying, she’d drop her head and continue to pray. She’d nod every so often, as if agreeing to what the Holy Spirit was telling her. Some paced back and forth. Ron would fall on his knees every once in a while and bury his face in his forearms, getting up after a couple minutes, resuming his trip across the room, shaking his hands every once in a while, partaking in a argument that only he could hear.
Still others had not moved a step—they stood in front of the chairs from whence they started. Some of them were swaying back and forth. Others stood stolidly, as if turned into a pillar of salt, or perhaps a David standing before Goliath.
And I watched them all, from the back of the room. Praying that they’d get it. Praying that I’d get it.
***
There was a haze over everything, my contact was not quite in correctly, and it was hard to keep my eyes open. Yet despite my heavily blurred vision, I was still able to make out the boiled hot dogs, the slightly toasted bread, the parched mashed potatoes that needed more milk and butter, the real eggs, the Tang, and milk. Or maybe I didn’t see it, regardless I was almost willing to bet my salvation that those were the things in front of me. Alas, my taste buds agreed; Christian Academy may not be many things, but they are consistent.
As my contacts settled, and my vision cleared, I look around the cafeteria to see our Youth Group kids seated around two rows of tables. Some of them were chatting away ignoring their Tabasco laden eggs, while others shoveled cereal into their mouths with eyes as encumbered as mine had just been. There was another church that was with us. They occupied the rest of the cafeteria—seven rows of tables. And for a split-second, I wished I were a teacher of that youth group.
Maybe that was it. We’d been reduced to a second-rate Youth Group because of our diminished size. It was no longer worth it to lend out the main building to us. After all, size was the ultimate measure of good youth group—a good church—and we did not have enough people to fill the rooms. We weren’t worth it. We took up two rows of tables. They took up seven.
***
It was the last day of retreat. Sunday morning. They were arranged in a circle, or as close to a circle as twenty-something teenagers can manage; so no, we were arranged in a shape that can only be adequately described as the outline of an amoeba undergoing cell division. Each of them seated atop those 39¢ chairs from Costco, frantically trying to figure out whether to be try to be funny when it came their turn to share what they had learned from retreat, or be sincere and, maybe, a bit vulnerable. Gun was the first to go. Then, slowly, they made their way around the circle. Wan commented on how he had not wanted to come. Laughter permeated the room. Nena talked about how she had never before prayed that long. A dozen of heads nodded in agreement. They all had their turn. Many of them chose to be funny. A precious few, chose to be vulnerable.
Before Danny closed them in prayer, concluding what would be another Winter Retreat, Ang interjected, saying, “…none of this matters if we don’t go home and do it too.”
In the last forty-three hours, our Youth Group had personally talked to God for more than two hours, had memorized more than three chapters of the Bible, and had in the first five hours imbibed over a dozen large bottles of Mango, Pinapple and Tangerine juice. My question now is: how many Youth Groups out there can say that?
I'm taking a Creative Writing Non-Fiction class at Rutgers right now, and every week, we are asked to submit 2-4 pages of original non-fiction writing. Here is what I wrote about this past Winter Retreat.
And for those of you who are not going to read very carefully, as a note, this ends with a realization of hope. Hope in what what I know God has in store for this Youth Group, if only we'd spend time on your knees praying... and listening.
Narrative:
I had never liked that gymnasium-like complex they’d been assigning to us. The one with the comely 옴돌 rooms on the side—the girls always got those—and the spartan barracks across the way—to which the boys were always resigned. That didn’t really bother me so much, boys needed to suffer a little. Let’s call it a character-building exercise.
It was the ‘sanctuary’ that least fit my fancy. Perhaps it was those white plastic chairs—the ones that you could buy at Costco for 39¢ each—strewn around an area illuminated by that harsh metallic light that fell from those industrial-sized florescent lights, giving everything a putrid green hue. Or maybe it was because the pictures that adored the walls had not even been framed; for the only thing keeping Peter from falling into a fountain of water was scotch tape. No, it was probably the fact that we took up less than half of this vast disinterested space. A space that looked more like a warehouse that one would use to store nuclear missiles, than it did a sanctuary.
But there we were, Winter Camp 2007, gathered together in a nuclear missile silo. The jerry-built partitions that usually attempted to separate the room were pushed to the side, giving me an unhindered view of the entire Youth Group, who were scattered around the room.
We had asked them to pray. They’d been allowed to walk about the room, with the hopes that perhaps if they “walked with God” literally, they would eventually decide to walk with God spiritually. Every couple minutes, 목산님 would pick up the microphone and give them a prayer topic: unsaved family and friends, the church building project, our own personal walks with God. We’d pray about it together, and then after five minutes, he’d conclude in prayer, and proffer up another topic to pray about, trying to shepherd this mass of people and their thoughts—their prayers.
They had been told to pray, but it was dubious to determine which among them were actually praying. Many of them had chosen to walk about the room. Lou was shuffling across the room, practicing what could only have been a long extinct disco move. Next time I checked on him, he was sitting down at the back of the room, fidgeting in his chair as if trying to increase his receptivity toward the Holy Spirit, like you would with a TV antennae. Some settled in a spot. Nena found a seat on the pew along the side of the wall. Every once in a while, she’d lift her head as if to check whether anyone had fallen asleep, and when she was satisfied that others were praying, she’d drop her head and continue to pray. She’d nod every so often, as if agreeing to what the Holy Spirit was telling her. Some paced back and forth. Ron would fall on his knees every once in a while and bury his face in his forearms, getting up after a couple minutes, resuming his trip across the room, shaking his hands every once in a while, partaking in a argument that only he could hear.
Still others had not moved a step—they stood in front of the chairs from whence they started. Some of them were swaying back and forth. Others stood stolidly, as if turned into a pillar of salt, or perhaps a David standing before Goliath.
And I watched them all, from the back of the room. Praying that they’d get it. Praying that I’d get it.
***
There was a haze over everything, my contact was not quite in correctly, and it was hard to keep my eyes open. Yet despite my heavily blurred vision, I was still able to make out the boiled hot dogs, the slightly toasted bread, the parched mashed potatoes that needed more milk and butter, the real eggs, the Tang, and milk. Or maybe I didn’t see it, regardless I was almost willing to bet my salvation that those were the things in front of me. Alas, my taste buds agreed; Christian Academy may not be many things, but they are consistent.
As my contacts settled, and my vision cleared, I look around the cafeteria to see our Youth Group kids seated around two rows of tables. Some of them were chatting away ignoring their Tabasco laden eggs, while others shoveled cereal into their mouths with eyes as encumbered as mine had just been. There was another church that was with us. They occupied the rest of the cafeteria—seven rows of tables. And for a split-second, I wished I were a teacher of that youth group.
Maybe that was it. We’d been reduced to a second-rate Youth Group because of our diminished size. It was no longer worth it to lend out the main building to us. After all, size was the ultimate measure of good youth group—a good church—and we did not have enough people to fill the rooms. We weren’t worth it. We took up two rows of tables. They took up seven.
***
It was the last day of retreat. Sunday morning. They were arranged in a circle, or as close to a circle as twenty-something teenagers can manage; so no, we were arranged in a shape that can only be adequately described as the outline of an amoeba undergoing cell division. Each of them seated atop those 39¢ chairs from Costco, frantically trying to figure out whether to be try to be funny when it came their turn to share what they had learned from retreat, or be sincere and, maybe, a bit vulnerable. Gun was the first to go. Then, slowly, they made their way around the circle. Wan commented on how he had not wanted to come. Laughter permeated the room. Nena talked about how she had never before prayed that long. A dozen of heads nodded in agreement. They all had their turn. Many of them chose to be funny. A precious few, chose to be vulnerable.
Before Danny closed them in prayer, concluding what would be another Winter Retreat, Ang interjected, saying, “…none of this matters if we don’t go home and do it too.”
In the last forty-three hours, our Youth Group had personally talked to God for more than two hours, had memorized more than three chapters of the Bible, and had in the first five hours imbibed over a dozen large bottles of Mango, Pinapple and Tangerine juice. My question now is: how many Youth Groups out there can say that?
posted by jamesvonkim at 8:37 PM
2 comments
