Why We Do Camps for Youth Residing in Foster Care by Tommy Lane, T.R.A.C. West Central Arkansas

At girls’ T.R.A.C. a few years ago, one of the campers smiled constantly and looked out for everyone around her. This is sometimes a tell in foster kids who are the oldest sibling and have been put into an overwhelming position of responsibility due to a challenging home life. This young girl, a mother hen to all the other girls, was very standoffish from the male staff.

This camper we’ll call Kim was obviously dealing with more than her fair share in life. As a middle-aged man, I kept to the outer boundaries of communication with Kim and stayed present but neutral. I know better than to get a savior complex. I can barely solve my own problems, much less a teenager with a traumatic past. Youth in foster care have been analyzed and counseled to the hilt already. They just want a chance to be a child.

On the final day of camp, youth are presented with an album of pictures taken throughout camp. Excited, the girls passed their albums around to each other to be signed. A few girls asked me to write something in their albums, but I was surprised and honored when Kim approached me.

“Mr. Tommy would you like to write something in my book?”

“I would love to!” I took her album and wrote a short note.

The last day of camp is an emotional time for everyone. I was teary eyed, wondering what situations the campers would return to face and whether I would see them again. When Kim said goodbye, there was no great revelation or evidence we formed a bond.

“Bye, fishing dude,”she said. That was it.

Fast forward almost a year.

I was at the fairgrounds in Russellville setting up one of our many necessary T.R.A.C. fundraisers. when I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey Mr. Tommy!”

I turned around and saw Kim.

I was elated to see her and to learn that she and her siblings had been adopted by a wonderful family. We talked for a few seconds before she left. Throughout the day, she returned to our booth like she wanted to share something but didn’t know how. Finally, as I cleaned up, she came up to me with a more serious and intentional demeanor.

“Mr. Tommy, I just wanted you to know something that I tried to tell you all day.” She paused. “Every time I hit a dark spot after camp, I ran to my room and picked up my album. I’d flip to the back where you wrote that note to me and I’d cry and pray, and somehow God would get me through it. And I just wanted you to know that God used you to help me and my siblings through some bad stuff. Thank you!”

She hugged my neck and returned to her family. I stood there with tears running down my cheeks in disbelief.

For the life of me, I cannot remember what I wrote in her album, and, to be honest, I don’t care as long as she sees Christ.

T.R.A.C. is never about us. Never about what we can do. Never about our words . . . it’s about simple obedience in the seemingly smallest of things.

Never underestimate a small unknown gesture.

To us, the gesture may be minuscule, but to someone else, our simple acts of obedience may be life changing.