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Salvation
Lake PAGE
THREE: Now
that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should
wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should
do as I have done for you. Towards the end of the ceremony, which was held in the cafeteria, it seemed everyone in the room began to cry. Cabin nine's counselor, an older woman who never wore shorts, was wailing so loudly I had to pinch my left wrist with my fingernails to keep from smiling. I didn't ask why they cried because surely I was meant to know. Maybe they were being called. I tried to forget about the soda and ice cream and the Seven-Minutes-in-Heaven that would commence in exactly four hours. But first we had to make our way back through the blackness and the trees, hand-in-hand and candle-free, to gather by the water. In the lake that night, an enormous wood cross floated on the water, bobbing lazily in the darkness. On the cross were a million tiny candles which somehow continued to burn despite an enduring balmy breeze. It was breathtaking. At the foot of the water were eight men, some of them counselors and others visiting ministers, sitting cross-legged behind aluminum basins filled with warm water, a white towel on one side and a bar of soap on the other. One by one, we were invited to step forward and dip our feet in the buckets. I was sent to Z's bucket. Z was an ex-con I had met on the first day of camp who wore bright neon tank tops and had tattoos on every inch of his iron-pumping arms -- the face of Jesus boldly emblazoned his right shoulder blade, blood dripping from its forehead on account of the intricately inked crown of thorns. Z had found Jesus, he explained, while serving a prison sentence for armed robbery a few years back. I felt strange having my feet scrubbed by Z not only because there was about three months of grime beneath my toenails, but also because I had an enormous crush on him and was sure that he knew.
I could tell that some of the adults were relieved when I finally did cry. It was dark out and our feet were clean as we sat alongside the lake, swatting mosquitoes and singing. An old man we hadn't seen before played along with us on his black Gibson guitar. He was nearly bald but still somehow managed a ponytail, a single silver curl that seemed to sprout magically from the back of his neck. Have
you seen Jesus my Lord? Have
you ever stood at the ocean, I didn't know why I was crying. The song was beautiful, though, and it made me think of my dad and the beach and whole summers at my grandfather's old house on the Cape with the pink bedroom and the broken lawn chairs. I had stood at the ocean, just before a fierce storm in August, when the sky seems purple and the waves swell silently, losing their bearings and collapsing into one another. The sand turns to pellets as it smacks your skin in salty gusts, and as the tide creeps higher onto the shore you swear that it's trying to pull you in. So maybe I had seen Jesus. I cried, too, because the singing was beautiful. A hundred voices chanting in unison in a forest of shadows and candlelight cannot help but be stunning. But I also cry at cotton commercials when Aaron Neville sings the "fabric of our lives" bit. I cry during the National Anthem before the Super Bowl. I cry when music sounds like life should feel. But usually doesn't. As I wept and watched the water, I waited and waited for the sky to open but it never did. I wanted my tears to be tears of revelation as I imagined everyone else's were. The entire camp continued to sing and wail, even my allies, the keepers of cool, the ones I smoked cigarettes with by the showers while the world was sleeping. They were children of God now, graceful and glowing. My friends were crying because tonight they had been saved. I, on the other hand, wept on account of the beautiful singing and the strangeness of the pink moon that seemed oblong and twisted as it shone off Salvation Lake.
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By
the time we reached cabin number six, the sun had disappeared. Atop
each of our beds lay a single white candle and a hand written invitation
to meet Jesus. It was a very sacred commitment and not to be taken
lightly, we were told, and after each of us vowed to personally
accept Jesus into our lives, we were promised a party complete with
ice cream and soda. Tonight was the night. 
