The Beginnings of TOTOL Camp ~ from the January 2011 Newsletter
Some miracles happen over time. For the past 24 summers we have been part of the unfolding miracle of what began as the Mission San Jose Summer Day Camp and has evolved into the TOTOL Day Camp on the Tohono O'Odham Nation in Arizona. This next June will be summer twenty-five!
In the spring of 1986, as we were leaving the village of Pisinemo, having delivered a truck load of clothing and household items to the Mission, I asked Sister Patrice: "Is there anything else we can do for you?"
Her reply was very simple: "Can you help us create a day camp for the children? The boarding schools have closed and the children will be home all the time now. Summers are long and hot and there is nothing for the children to do."
My reply (as my thoughts and concerns raced around my brain): "Yes. We've never done anything like this, but we work with youth and I'm sure we can get people to help."
We had no idea how to "do" a camp. We'd been loosely connected with some small camps that our children attended. We'd worked with youth in our home parish of St. Nicholas in Los Altos, California. We were brimming over with willingness. But we'd never run a camp.
Three months later we were there with nine brave volunteers (including us) and camp happened. We like to say it was one of the hardest and best weeks of our life. That week changed our lives.
I often tell the story of the morning that altered my outlook on what was happening at camp. It was about 6am on the Wednesday and I was exhausted, looking for some peace in the morning desert. I was walking across the basketball court anguishing over the events of the first two days of camp. The children were so quiet. It was hard to know if they were happy to be at camp. The volunteers we'd brought with us were beyond exhaustion. Sister Patrice and Sister Anne were laboring in the kitchen with no air conditioning. The days were hot and long and then the monsoon rains made everything just a little more difficult.
As I walked that morning, I saw a person running from the east side of the village. She got closer and I saw it was one of the girls in my teen group. She ran toward me and without slowing, reached out and pushed a crumpled piece of paper into my hand. I stopped and uncurled the remnant of paper that had a poem written on it. I've lost the paper and the poem, but the message is still clear in my mind. She had written: Why do these people come 700 miles to be with us – why? They come here because they love us.
We have been blessed to see and hear. We thank God for these marvelous awesome twenty-five summers. |