Our lives—at least mine, anyway—are the product of our choices and/or of random events that, at the time, seem almost inconsequential. I spent a long time in the sleepless wee hours of a recent morning thinking about this and came to the conclusion that I am exactly where I am supposed to be in this crazy universe.
That unraveling began with a dream, but as the clock ticked on toward dawn, it turned into a full-blown exegesis that introduced me to two essential types of people I have encountered along my way: my “spiritual guides” and my “sentinels.” The former helped me choose which fork in the road to take, while the latter kept me on my designated path until the next turning. Some of each were friendly or at least benign, others less so, but their attention never wavered. If I couldn’t always see my destination, I nevertheless both chose and followed the course set out for me, and now here I am, at camp.
I am fully aware that this probably sounds like a lot of New Age hooey, or at least, a layman’s attempt to understand the predestination/arminianism dilemma. The former suggests that divine intervention controls our lives; the latter belief presupposes that God’s sovereignty and human free will are not only compatible, but also equally determinant in our lives. Hmmm…
Is this going somewhere? Indeed, it is. To camp, specifically, to this “at-home camp” with four of our grandchildren while their parents get a much-deserved, but long-overdue (thanks to COVID), anniversary sojourn in Greece.
Now, don’t get me wrong: “camp” with these grandkids is hardly onerous duty. They are wonderful, kind, thoughtful children, and “camp” is their comfortable home which comes with a fully stocked refrigerator, a golf cart for neighborhood trips, a sports court, and a backyard swimming pool. Moreover, the kids’ schedule includes weekdays at honest-to-goodness school camps, so on those days, our daytime responsibilities were relegated to morning drop-off and afternoon pick-up at the appointed hours and appropriate locations. (Fortunately, Mom left us a very specific set of instructions.) And on the two weekends of our oversight duty, between tennis, pickle ball, swimming pool, and evening games, there was plenty to do.
Meals were joyous and boisterous affairs, and our “campers” were remarkably well-behaved as well as well-trained in the long-lost art of helping with clean-up and other household chores. Bed times were staggered: the youngest (age five) was ready to hit the hay by 7:30; the oldest (age twelve) had a 9:00 curfew. (My own bedtime wasn’t much later.) The days went by much too quickly, and what once might have seemed a marathon to me became a sprint that was over all-too-soon. Except Laundry Day. That was still a marathon.
But back to the age-old conflict between determinism and free will. On the night I tossed and turned examining all the threads in the tapestry of my life, I really did come to the conclusion that not only was this “camp”exactly where I was supposed to be, but also that my wife and her big, beautiful family were gifts of immeasurable value. Oh sure, we have our occasional spats, but without doubt, I am blessed beyond measure. All the roads I’ve taken, all their unexpected twists and turns, all their forks and dead ends, have inevitably brought me to this moment, this lovely “camp,” right where I am supposed to be, where I want to be, where I belong.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.
