In 1979 there wasn’t a child in Texas who loved God as much as I did. I loved St. Christopher’s, the Episcopal church that Nikki found for us, and protested with great force when she felt too ill to attend.
On those Sundays I would strategically place Bunny, Fozzie Bear, Holly Hobby and more of my friends against a windowsill. Their plastic eyes were wide with anticipation for today’s visiting preacher from Dallas, Texas, the Right Reverend Misty Renee Littrell. Me.
As Nikki sprawls out on the sofa to watch “Meet the Press” I preach to my stuffed congregation.
“God is in you, and you are in him. You need to be good so God can love you. Don’t be mean. Don’t go outside when you’re not supposed to go outside. Eat vegetables, unless you don’t like them,” I command from behind my EasyBake pulpit.
Nikki mistakenly laughs at something I’ve said and my pint-size TV evangelist takes off.
“You must repent for your sins against Teddy Bear! You have to look within your own heart, if you have one. I’m talking to you, Tin Man. The days of sitting on a bed doing nothing are over! I command you to declare your love for God’s only son!” I raise my voice, emboldened by a human audience.
“Keep it down. I’m watching TV,” Nikki says.
“Rise up to the promised land! Give your allowance to those who yearn!” I find myself in a baritone frenzy of the Holy Spirit rolling through me. My body shakes and arms flail to emphasize zeal.
I’m in dire need of a sibling.
A neighborhood girl invites me for a week of bible summer camp and I hound Nikki to sign the paperwork.
As much as I worship God, my excitement emanates from having space from Nikki. I worry if we have rent. I worry about her health. Is she in an argument with her parents (the only safety net I observe in my life)?
I need God or a stiff drink and I have yet to discover booze.
We hop off the luxurious travel bus and descend upon log cabins and greenery. A beautifully-constructed pine bridge carries us over a jade creek and into a wood-beamed, stadium-sized food pavilion. There are barns of horses, clay tennis courts, art halls and swimming pools with multiple diving boards.
My appointed top bunk sits in the left wing of a one-story mansion. A piano presides in the main room and furniture resembling everything I’ve ever seen at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue adorns the salon.
Where can I hide when camp is over? I’m never leaving.
The ages range from 9 to 14 of my twenty bunkmates portside. I cozy up to the prettiest 14-year-old girls and command the floor.
“We’re going to stay up extremely late,” I start us off.
I allow my bunkmates to make suggestions.
Many of the girls are concerned about snacking. Food isn’t my thing.
Some girls start the gossip train running. Gossip isn’t my thing.
“I vote we sneak over to the boys’ cabins!” an underling offers.
“There are boys here?” I ask.
Boys are my thing.
Nineteen girls democratically hatch a plan to sneak over to the boys side of Camp Bible Caruth with me as their leader.
One dissenter sits on her bunk reading Scripture. Whatever!
As the day’s festivities go on, I’m not exactly sure why I feel this camp is more Jesus-y than most.
Is it the live Baptism I witness at Caruth Lake? Maybe. Could it be the preacher laying hands on campers who come forward full of sin? Maybe. Or is it the 10-year-old speaking in tongues with counselors? Yup, that was the one.
By day two my “sneak to the boys” crusade has 12 attendees and 10 separatists.
I’m losing followers left and right to my old friend Jesus.
Each night counselors gather campers together to talk about sin. Turns out, we’re full of it.
“Did y’all know just thinking poorly about your parents is a sin? Have you ever been mad at Dad? Has either of your parents caused you to walk off in a huff and slam the door?” Preacher Dan gets a big laugh imitating the huff and door slam.
He capitalizes on the consensus and goes for the big guns.
“It’s a sin! That’s what Camp Caruth was created for. This is a place where you can repent for those sins and rededicate yourself to Jesus for your evil actions and thoughts! Who wants to be saved?”
A popular girl with pale skin (I have yet to see anything but pale skin) stands, and with tears in her eyes she makes her way to the stage.
“Amen,” Preacher Dan whispers to the heavens.
More campers stand with weepy eyes and soon there’s a line to get the evil poison out of your youthful heart.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I think as I watch this production. First of all, you lost me at “Dad” and second of all, Holly Hobby would walk straight back to my room if I was this overt in my delivery.
Who’s falling for this line of bullshit? I turn to Carrie, the girl I came to camp with, and I’ll damned to hell if she’s not sniffling and getting in line.
I look around the room and lock eyes with a mischievous boy. He has jet black hair combed greaser style and clothes from Saturday Night Fever. He looks out of place in Texas, much less Camp Caruth. We hightail it around the corner and begin kissing, with and without tongue.
* * * * *
The next-to-last day I have 3 devotees left for our infiltration of the boys’ cabins. My heart is barely in it. Nikki once took me to see “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and that’s exactly what this feels like. Am I the only person left in this camp of sound mind and body? I know in my heart that God doesn’t think I’m evil. I’d bet my life on it. Nikki however, she’s got some repenting to do.
My infiltration of the male side of camp has disbanded. It’s the last night and we’ve all been handed a flashlight.
Preacher Dan adds “repent stations” to handle the 99.9% of Camp Caruth sinners. I decide to see what the fuss is about and make my way to the stage. I’m whisked off to a woman who just finished saving another soul. I sit in a wooden chair across from her.
Carol asks about my homelife. I’m reluctant and she can feel it. She approaches me as if I’m hesitating out of fear of God. She’s reading me all wrong. I’m afraid of someone much scarier than God. I’m scared of my mom.
I toss Carol a few minor sins; cursing, kissing boys and lying. But then, I get to the good stuff. I tell Carol that Nikki smokes pot.
The woman looks as if she’s going to drop dead of shock. In Texas, circa 1979, Marijuana is akin to drowning puppies and then eating them with unborn-baby-brain demi-glace.
Carol consults with Preacher Dan on how to handle my circumstances. Holy shit balls I might have just royally fucked up.
Are they calling the police?
I secretly hope Nikki gets ten to life. I also feel afraid.
I’m told my mom is definitely going to hell and there’s no saving her. They are iffy about my chances and feel my next move is a public baptism.
I’m told to grab my flashlight and join everyone else outside. I obey.
In the dark, cones of light swirl towards the stars as Caruth campers sing;
Hide it under a bushel? NO!
I’m gonna let it shine
Let it shine
Let it shine
Let it shine
Don’t let Satan blow it out
I’m gonna let it shine
Don’t let Satan blow it out
I’m gonna let it shine
Don’t let Satan blow it out
I’m gonna let it shine
Let it shine
Let it shine
Let it shine
I grab my flashlight and twirl it around. I smile and sing as I pass groups of campers possessed by the Holy Spirit.
I want to cry. I can call my Mom an asshole, but you can’t.
I’m full of fear, shame and loneliness.
I literally hide in a bushel and forget to turn off my flashlight. An older girl from another cabin jumps down beside me mid-chorus.
“Let it shine…” she lets out a cappella.
I’m drained of energy and unable to fake another refrain.
“Can you believe this bullshit?” my angel sent from God inquires.
It’s leaving day and I decline my baptism. I board the travel bus home and pray Nikki remembers to pick me up.
