What A Mother Doesn't Know
a story about church camp + making hay while the sun shines || June Newsletter
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.1
We finished our week of church camp and never went back.2
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.
Farm Happenings
Have I mentioned June is my favorite month? I love the green fields and pastures, the wheat not yet turned golden, and the scorching heat of July and August hasn’t hit yet. Some of my favorite evenings are when we all load up and drive around, checking the crops as a family. The evenings are cool enough to need a light jacket, and I’ll never tire of seeing the rolling green fields touch the vast blue sky.
I couldn’t help but stop on the side of the road to snap this photo, trying to capture the different shades of green with our barley in the foreground and lentils in the background.
Rich is still tending to the weeds, but the majority of everyone’s time is now spent haying. We have hay fields in four counties, which means a lot of trucking and hauling the bales back home. Since we are all dryland (i.e., no irrigation), we only get one cutting of hay. Other farms with irrigation (or a lot of rain!) get two or three cuttings of hay, but this is our one chance to get hay for our cattle for this fall and winter.
Last week, the crew hayed at the home place, so I was able to bring a couple of dinners to the field. (Sorry, Team, but my meal deliveries don’t extend further than 40 miles from home. The fuel surcharge is too high for my Farm Uber Eats.)
About 70% of our hay will be put up into dry bales, and 30% will be made into silage. Silage bales are made by baling when the hay is damp; then, the bales are trucked to the ranch yard and wrapped. The ends of the rows are sealed, and they will stay wrapped until the bales are fed to the cattle.3
Some of the alfalfa fields are doing exceptionally well—it’s been the talk of the farm for weeks. Rich says he will likely never see a crop like this again in his lifetime. And apparently, when your farmer husband asks you to take his photo with said crop, the appropriate response is, “Wow! That’s amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it!” (Ask me how I know.) It will be very time-consuming to get it cut, baled, and hauled—but the crew is excited.
Haying will take the next few weeks, and by the time we’re done, we will have around 5,000 round bales.
My chicken farming operation is down by one hen. A few weeks ago, I took the kids to Wyoming for a week of swimming lessons + grandparent + cousin time. While I was gone, one of the hens went missing. Rich didn’t find any signs of her, not one feather. Most likely, she didn’t make it in the coop one evening before the door closed, and something ate her. (I try not to think about this too much.) She’s the first hen we’ve lost since we started chicken farming last year.
Up next: finishing haying, the start of harvest, and selling the calves.
Lately, I’m . . .
Reading: “Lit” by Mary Karr for a writing course I’m taking. It’s a memoir I’ve wanted to read for a while, and I’m glad for the nudge to finally read it!
Watching: a documentary on Amazon Prime called “The Thief Collector.” This was a random pick, but it was really interesting. In 1985, Willem de Kooning's "Woman-Ochre," one of the most valuable paintings of the 20th century, is cut from its frame at the University of Arizona Museum of Art and disappeared. Thirty-two years later, the painting is found hanging in the bedroom of a New Mexico home.
Wearing: this T-shirt, boldly declaring my age, paired with comfy shorts.
Cooking: this quick and easy chili by JoAnna Gaines. For years, I’ve made the same chili recipe in the crockpot, but this is a nice change—and only takes 30 minutes on the stove!
Baking: a ‘fancy’ boxed cake with a chocolate ganache and sprinkles for an employee’s birthday. I’m one of those people who think boxed cake is delicious as is, but this was a tasty change—and easy too!
Writing: this post! And random thoughts and story ideas in my notebook and the start of an essay for my writing workshop. I don’t have anything in the queue for publication, and I’ve mostly been off IG this month, so I haven’t written anything there either.
Singing: “Chemical” by Post Malone. I may be pushing 40, but I cannot stop with the occasional pop/rock/rap music that makes me feel like I’m 20 again with no cares in the world.
Listening: to “The Freeway Phantom” podcast about five young black girls who were murdered in 1971 in Washington, D.C., and the killer was never found. (I promise I don’t only listen to true crime podcasts.)
Sharing: nothing new of my own. Instead, I’ll share a line from a writing book I recently read, “You don’t have to know where you are going in order to begin.”
Buying: so. many. snacks. How do these kids survive a school day without eating 18 times? Also, this dress. The saleswoman sold it to me by saying, “It looks like a sack on the rack, but it’s cute on!” And it has pockets.
Happy Summer Solstice! It already feels like the summer is flying by!4 I hope your summer is full of green grass, blue skies, and fields of wide-open possibilities.
Until next month,
Stacy
P.S. I’ve never shared such a long post, and I contemplated not sending it or chopping it apart because I was worried it was too long. So if you stuck with me to now—thank you.
Mom, please feel free to comment if this is not true.
This is the only photo I have from our days at church camp. Selfies were not a thing in 1997, which is a bummer for the purpose of this post.
I never really know how much or little detail to go into on these kinds of things. Feel free to let me know if you want to know more (or less)!
Is it even summer if you don’t say that at least once?
We just sent Lily to camp for the first time, so I felt this! I had similar conversations with her because she also had only ever spent the night with family members and I wanted to prepare her for what to expect! She loved it; I’m so glad Rhett did too! And, that story about you and your sister is 😂👏🏼.
“It’s a part of his story, not mine.” 😭 don’t tell me these things (even though I already know them). My oldest is heading off to a little 4K program in the fall and I’m not an emotional person, but I’m having a hard time with the idea of not knowing what is happening in her story at all times. Maybe I’m sad emotionally with this new stage of life. Or maybe it’s the control freak in me. Maybe a bit of both. But MAN, is it hitting me way harder than any other milestone.