"My name is Lore, and I'll be the program director." I said. Sharon introduced herself next, "Camp nurse." The last introduction came from the small boy beside the camp director. With a look on his face that might have been misinterpreted as fear of speaking in public, but was really just admiration of his dad, he took a deep breath. "My name is Travis and" he looked up, "I'm just dad's son."

Now, correct me if I'm wrong here, or theologically bastardizing the awe and wonder of God Almighty, but being just dad's son seemed to me, at that moment, the most right place to be. We had all just labeled ourselves by our occupation, our name, our t-shirt slogans, and our choice style of Teva's; Travis needed no other identity than that of being his dad's own. Final answer.

I was challenged, so challenged, by that declaration. I've had a lot of time to mull it over these past two weeks: typing up program schedules, talking about disciplinary actions for unrepentant campers, canoeing 45 miles down the Oswegatchie river, and last night, patrolling the trails and paths for Mission Impossible. It sounds busy, and it is, but to me it has been the most restful two weeks of the past two years. Communion with God has been heightened and contentedness in his fatherhood of me has been relished. Glaring sins which have beset me always have taken a consecutive position from backseat to trunk to brake lights to the last rest stop I passed. I've forgotten what it means to battle. I've forgotten what it means to be the strong one. His faithfulness amazes me daily and His care for me (me) has ceased to become a moment I can point to and say He was the author of that blessing -- but my life as a whole is suddenly that moment.

My identity is not contingent on who, or what, or where, I am. Instead it is fulfilled in that look of fear which is really intense admiration as I look up, forget my position and my occupation, empty myself, and say "I'm just dad's son."