I first noticed Paul as he was struggling to drag his suitcase up the steps of the lodge to check-in for camp that dry Monday afternoon. His nine year old frame was only slightly bigger than the puffy sleeping bag sneaking out from under his left arm. I probably should have offered assistance, but I was fascinated right away at this little boy’s tenacity, and I felt that to interrupt would be to steal the victory I hoped awaited him at the top.
The best way I can think to describe him is that he reminded me of a puppy philosopher. He was small and cute … like a puppy, but time after time he would ask the simple but profound questions of a deep thinker, and yet, like a person trying to remember who they are, these questions were asked without the pride that so often attends great minds.
As we sat on the cool concrete pad behind the craft shack that Wednesday morning I kicked myself. Our post of 8 elementary boys had spent the past few days together and yet it was only at that moment that I realized the stupid assumption I had been making about Paul. I had simply asked him to pray and without any sense of the embarrassment that kids from a typical Christian home would suffer he declared he didn’t know how. “You’ve never prayed before?” I asked. “Nope” he said with a slight shake of his disheveled brown head. Curious, I probed, “Have you ever read the Bible before Paul?” “No, this week is the first time.” He said simply.
