I think that the reason I love this camp can be summarized very briefly by a couple of things that happened on Friday. It has become a bit of a camp tradition to turn lunch time into a marketplace – most everyone becomes a dealer in food goods at one point or another, and it is not unusual for a market brawl or two to break out over some coveted item. Today I am haggling with two sisters from Winnipeg’s African immigrant community. We strike our bargain: my strawberries, cherries, cheese and bagel in return for the African flatbread called injera. The gazebo is crowded so we go and sit on the deck steps, and relish the satisfaction of a mutually advantageous business exchange. We don’t talk much. We just sit there. I eat their food and they eat mine.
Later that afternoon on a long and hot bike ride, my hydration pack becomes a communal well. If you have ever used one of these water dispensing objects, you will know that it can be slightly gross to share it with a group, but now it strikes me that it is maybe no more repulsive than the communion cup. It’s just that it isn’t wine and it isn’t Sunday.
I love this camp because there is communion served every day, and the holy water rumbles just loud enough for us deaf folk to feel the vibrations.
We don’t talk much. It isn’t wine and it isn’t Sunday. We come and we drink.