What a Mother Doesn’t Know

A month ago, I signed Rhett up for church camp. Truthfully, I missed registration—the camp filled up—and a few weeks later, he got in as the first kid on the waiting list. Church camp has been on my radar for a few years, but this was the first summer he was old enough to go—having completed second grade.

When registration opened, I explained to him that he wouldn’t see us for four days. I told him he would spend three nights in a cabin in the mountains—without us. I didn’t want to scare him, but I also wanted to make sure he knew what he was signing up for. Part of me expected him to change his mind, and I didn’t want to register, pay the fee, and have him back out. So, I drug my feet to sign him up—and then the camp was full. 

He was unphased; his excitement never wavered. And he was thrilled when a spot opened.

But the night before he left, the nerves crept in. He unexpectedly wrapped his arms around me and squeezed my waist, saying, “I’m going to miss you.”

It was the first time he expressed anything other than enthusiasm. I hugged him, and with knots in my stomach, I said, “You’ll have so much fun!” I finished packing his bag and slipped a handwritten note between his swim trunks and socks.

The next day, I drove him and his cousin, Ames, who is three years older, to camp. It was Ames’s fourth summer at camp, and his excitement was evident. Rhett was quiet during check-in, taking in the space and the mountains. As my time was getting closer to leaving, he quietly said, “I’m happy, but sad too.” For a second, I wondered if I shouldn’t leave him. Was he too young? Despite his begging me to go to camp, what if he ended up miserable?

But I brushed my worries aside, and I got the boys checked in, and they dropped their bags in their respective cabins. They took off running. Ames led the way, his feet knowing where to go. I quickly realized they would be gone, and I hadn’t said goodbye. “Guys, wait up!” I called. They stopped mid-run and came back down the path toward me.

I hugged Rhett and told him I loved him. Then I snapped their picture. And just as fast, they were gone. As he ran off, I thought of what I planned to tell him before leaving: “Brush your teeth! Take a shower! And for the love of all that is good, please change your underwear!” 

But with the sun shining on a perfect June day—he was gone. 

//

It’s the late 90s, and on a late summer day, my parents drop my sister and me off at our church. We load into a car with other kids from our youth group and head off to church camp. I can’t remember exactly how I felt on that August day, but I imagine my sister, and I were excited about spending time away from our parents—like we were grownups—but nervous, too, as we dropped our bags into the car trunk. The camp was in the mountains, several hours from home—a circle of rustic cabins in a forest clearing. The week was promised to be filled with outdoor games, campfires, Bible study time, new friends, and fun. 

We cried the whole time. 

I don’t remember much about the days we spent on that mountain other than the rain matched our homesick tears. I was still years from having a cell phone, so my little sister begged the camp counselors to let us call home—multiple times. She recalls that at some point, “The mean old lady wouldn’t let us call anymore.” This is likely because we asked to call home several times a day, and after a while, our parents said they wouldn’t make the four-hour drive to come and get us. We were there to stay. And I’m guessing the camp counselors didn’t think it was a true emergency, and they believed our homesickness would fade.

It should be noted that church camp was only four or five days. Our parents didn’t send us off on a multi-week mission trip. 

And I was 13 years old. 

In my defense, this was the first time my sister and I were away from home. The only place we stayed overnight before this was at our grandparents’ house, just two miles from ours.

As I remember, my dad was moved by our phone calls and pleas to come get us. But my mom held firm; we had wanted to go to camp, and we would finish it. 

Now, I’m not saying this was my mom’s sole motivation—but as a mom now myself—I bet she likely had these days marked off on the calendar. And because church camp was at the end of summer, she was probably ready for a break from two sisters who often fought, and she was not about to have us come home early.

We finished our week of church camp and never went back.

//

Last week, the days went by, but no calls came from Rhett’s camp. Each night when I went to bed, I wondered if he was sleeping okay and if he was having fun. I hoped he found my note and that my familiar handwriting and words would buoy him if he was homesick.

I recalled the many times I got on my computer to register him for camp—but didn’t. The story I told myself was that he wasn’t ready. But really, I think it was me who wasn’t. I was scared his time at church camp would be like mine. I purposely never told him about my one summer at camp—I didn’t want to cloud his excitement with my experience. 

On the last day of camp, my sister-in-law picked the boys up, and she sent me a photo of them, arm in arm, smiles wide, just like I left them. I asked her if Rhett had fun, and she texted, “Yes!!!” And added, “And that’s a quote!” When he got home, he only shared a few details of his days away.

The strange thing about kids getting older is how little we sometimes know about their daily lives. Rhett and Allie are in a classroom for hours throughout the school year, and I don’t always know who they play with, talk to, or sit with at lunch. I rarely find out who made them smile or laugh or hurt their feelings. It’s such a change from when they were babies and toddlers, and their whole world orbited around me—and mine around them.

I would have loved to be a fly on the wall, seeing Rhett at camp—watching him bravely meeting new people and trying new things in an unfamiliar place. But that’s not how motherhood works. When he was a baby, his days were painted and formed in front of me, but as he grows older, I’m left to fill in the gaps of the picture on my own.

This week was just one of many to come, where he separates a little more from me, from us—stretching his wings but safely landing back home. These moments in motherhood pull me in new ways, too—realizing that we mothers don’t and won’t always know everything about their lives.

I’ll never know all that happened—the good and the hard—during his few days at church camp. It’s a part of his story, not mine.

Maybe my mom’s intention wasn’t purely a few days' break from us; it was a gentle nudge—seeing what we could do without her.