It is a particularly odd exercise to find myself writing again… It has been a very long time and to be perfectly honest I'm not even sure how long it has been. I have recently been reminded that due to circumstances this summer I have deprived my (admitedly tiny) audience of my questionably literate ramblings about camp this summer.
Unfortunately this is not due to the lack of ability to write, it is due to the lack of ability to be in attendance at camp for the fullness of the summer. And while I hope to be more present at camp in years to come… this may be the end of being able to take full seasons and spend them in that way. Just one of many things that I am currently in the process of internalizing and properly mourning; and on that list the topic of camp is a relatively minor concern, which should indicate the importance of the list itself. However those are topics for another post, and I shall relegate them thusly. Instead I have a more timely topic and I shall focus on it.
Today was a day where a great man was memorialized and buried. Earlier this week Marvin Reinhold, A man I always knew as Grandpa (or very occasionally as Tige), passed away. And while by all accounts this was as normal of a death as could be expected it still hurt. Grandpa Reinhold was 85 years old and the last time I saw him he had a sparkle in his eye that easily rivals my two year-old nephew for mischief and joy. Grandpa and his wife were among the heart and soul of a camp ministry called Rainbow Bible Ranch, a place I called home for many years. I must that particular camp was a training ground for much of what I am even today. We mourned Grandma Reinhold back in 2004 and now we mourn the loss of Grandpa. And as grief is odd and hard to translate into anything coherent I will instead fall back on one of the old cliches and tell you who Grandpa was to me by telling a story.
At some point in the past, the late 90's or so I was at Rainbow for a week of camp. By this time I had already attended several summers and had fallen in love with the annual ritual of attending camp, riding horses, and growing spiritually in ways that took the rest of the year to fully process. This year was no exception, and as the normal camp routine on thursday night dictated we watched a movie called The Harvest. Even then I knew the story well, so I listened to it more than I actually watched and let my thoughts drift around the themes the story discussed. At the end the staff always use the film to present the gospel and allow the opportunity for campers to respond and have one on one conversations. Although I was quite assured of my salvation I took advantage of the opportunity to talk to a staff member and discuss what had been stirring in my heart and what we in Christian circles summarize as "the call". Well that night I ended up paired with Grandpa Reinhold.
He looked at me with those gentle eyes that always seemed to look right into the depths of your soul and loved you anyway. He asked me what was on my heart, and I rambled for what felt like hours. I told him how I didn't know why or how it would look but that I felt called into some kind of ministry, and even though I had no clue what that would lead to (and in some ways I still don't) I knew the next step was to work there. Grandpa just looked at me, and with absolutely no condemnation, ridicule, or doubt just smiled and then placed both of his huge hands on my shoulders and began to pray over me. And the next year (whenever it was) I started on the road to working at camp. It was a long journey and one fraught with devastation and triumph. I grew a lot at that camp, and through that time Grandpa was often a voice of comfort and encouragement. Even when my confidence in myself wavered, or when I had done something incredibly stupid Grandpa would smile and with surprising gentleness would spur us on to greater things.
The craziest thing about this story? It's not unique at all. In my own memory it is one sliver of almost a decade of time spent there at that camp, and these moments were so frequent as to be almost taken for granted. I say almost because they always meant the world to us every time they happened. The other thing you should know (and I suspect some of you might) is that my experience was only one of (at minimum) hundreds of others who experienced the same. If the greatness of a man is measured in how he does justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly with God then Grandpa Reinhold was among the greatest men I have ever known. And in the same way that I cannot wait to meet my own Father on the other side of this mortal coil as a man whole and without sickness, I cannot wait to see all of the stories I was told fully realized and see the soul reunited with a body that can finally keep up.
But tragically, that day is not today… So, farewell Grandpa. my mentor, my guide, my example, my encourager, my brother in christ, and my friend. I will see you again. But not yet… Instead may we all be worthy of the mantle you passed to each and every one of us that grew up under your teaching. You are missed, and you are loved.
