When they were banging on our car windows, screaming at us, I was so scared I thought I might pee my pants.

 

What kind of camp counselors open your car’s trunk and snatch your luggage before the car has even stopped? Immediately upon entering the large gray retreat center, I was dragged into a dance circle made up of uber peppy counselors and weirded out campers I didn’t know, who wriggled to songs I’d never heard.

 

Is this what all church camps were like? This was not only my first church leadership camp, it was my first summer camp ever.

 

Why am I here? I thought. I don’t make friends easily. I’m not as far in my faith journey as these other kids. I don’t even have my own Bible. Maybe this was a mistake.

 

I was expecting to try new things. I figured I’d end up with a few more friends.

 

But I never expected to meet people who would change my life.

 

There were nine of us. Seven campers, a teen leader, and an adult leader. We sat in a circle on the floor of a small room, leaning against a wall, scarfing pieces of Laffy Taffy and Baby Ruth to quash the quaky, nervous feeling roiling in our stomachs. No one talked.

 

Then, our adult leader, a pretty college brunette who smiled in her sleep, introduced herself.

 

“Hi everyone!” She chirped. “My name is Teresa. But you can call me Mama T.”

 

I sat there thinking, “Teresa is way too happy.”

 

“You have five minutes to tell us about yourself,” Teresa said. “Tell us what we should know. Your life story. What you share is up to you.”

 

And while Teresa was talking, I started judging my circle of strangers: one was a tomboy. another was a loner, there was the geek, the wannabe gangster, and the jock, who were all forced to come by their parents, I determined. And her, she was the annoying popular girl.

 

Then the life stories started.

 

The girl I had pinned as a “loner” had battled with an eating disorder. She had stopped eating completely, which went unnoticed for several weeks.

 

The “wannabe gangster,” with the flatbill hat and the skinny jeans that sagged had shared that his dream job was to design cars for a living. But I couldn’t imagine anyone hiring him.

 

The “popular girl” was more enthusiastic than she needed to be. Her loud voice had the tendency to fly and dip in ways that I had only heard among the girls standing in line at Starbucks. But she had dealt with everything from adoption to depression to attempted suicide.

 

The “jock” told us about his faith and how it didn’t used to be so strong. He didn’t say any more about it, and I didn’t ask.

 

The “geek” talked about the pressures he’s had growing up as the oldest of five children, striving to be the “perfect child” so the rats he called siblings would have “a good influence”.

 

The “tomboy” had been held at gunpoint when she was five and still has flashbacks that traumatize her. I thought maybe she plays the sports to escape them.

 

These people who I had “figured out” had become strangers once again, people I didn’t know.

 

And yet these people have inspired me and changed my life.

 

Because of them, I now realize that everyone has that secret story--the real story--that they hold and protect deep within their hearts. These stories won’t be shared with just anyone. Don’t expect to hear it right away. And I now realize there are other people with problems, people who hide their pain behind a happy persona. I now realize it takes more than a first or a second or even a seventy-third impression to really know someone, and in a way, the people we’ve known for years could still be strangers to us.

 

And even though the people I met have had hard times and some have reached the lowest of low, they’ve been able to climb out from a hole that they either dug for themselves or simply stumbled down. They’re strong because they want to use what they’ve experienced to help others facing the same hardships and try to make a difference.

 

I look back on that first day at camp and I feel ashamed. I was so confident that I knew everything about the “geek”, everything about the “jock”, everything about the “loner”, everything about the “tomboy” and the “gangster wanna-be” and the “popular girl”. I was quick to judge and label them.

 

And I can’t help but wonder what they thought of me. Did they see me the way I see myself? Or did they see me as the “loner” or the “geek”? They certainly couldn’t have seen me as the “popular girl” or the “jock”. Who was I in their minds? Maybe I was just another stranger, ready to be categorized.