Champion For the Challenged
Heno Head, Jr.
Published by Gymstone Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2003 Heno Head, Jr.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Chapter One 'Out Of Texas'
"Amen."
Looking up from his prayer, Paul started the Toyota mini- van. Cyndy leaned over and squeezed his hand. "It's going to be okay," she assured him. "God knows what he's doing. He'll guide us."
Paul smiled, shaking his head. He never ceased to be amazed at the enthusiasm of his vivacious wife. Cyndy's can-do attitude was as contagious as it was charming. "There's no doubt in my mind that God knows," Paul agreed. "I just wish we did."
"Sometimes that's half the fun."
Paul glanced in the mirror. "Can you believe this van? We look like the Beverly Hillbillies. All we need is a water barrel tied to the outside and ol' Jed riding shotgun."
In the back seat nine-year-old Kayman settled between cushions and boxes, clicking her seat belt. Kayman's blonde hair was still high-lighted by her summer tan. A pretty outgoing girl who sported straight A report cards, she gazed out of the side window as they left their home behind. Softly, Kayman waved one last, silent good-bye to her best friend Amanda. On the opposite side of the back seat, her brother Trace also watched quietly as the neighborhood receded from view. Two years younger, he was already thinking of the excitement that lay ahead. What did it mean to live at a camp?
So it was in the fall of 1991 that the Teas family left Dallas, Texas. Their open road to adventure pointed toward the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. For his part, though, Paul wasn't thinking of adventure. Too many 'what if s' crowded his mind. The way he figured, at thirty-eight years of age with two children, one wife, and no job, he didn't have to seek adventure. Adventure had found him.
Over a year earlier he had been caught in a downsizing squeeze at Espey Houston. Surely, he had thought at the time, it wouldn't be that hard to locate another job in Dallas. But he hadn't found one—neither sooner nor later.
In college Paul had majored in archaeology. With Espey Houston he had been a diver . . . sunken ships and artifacts. Who knows, another zig or zag in his life's journey and Paul might have been one of the Titanic divers. As it turned out, during his Dallas job search there were moments when he felt as if he were going down with the great ship.
Throughout those days he had steadfastly clung to God, his rock. Paul had been a Christian for years. He had loved knowing that God watched over him and his family. During the job search he had prayed, read the Word, and sought God's direction. Paul knew he wanted to live a life that mattered, one that God could use for His glory. But what shape would that life take? Where would it be? And, especially, when would it happen? Too many questions, not enough answers.
Paul was especially drawn to kids in this world, children who needed someone to stand with them, for them, beside them. Years before, he had been walking along a downtown street of El Paso, Texas. A small girl with an outstretched hand stopped him. She was maybe six or seven, no more than eight years old . . . torn little dress, dirty face, beautiful brown eyes. Paul knelt down in front of her and put a bill in her hand, watching those eyes light up. He had been a college student at the time, no wife or family of his own yet. But that image had never left him . . . a little girl doing the best she could to make it from one day to the next.
Now, he did have his wife and children. In his heart he often felt as if there were enough love within him to embrace his own family, and still reach out to kids who were beyond that inner circle. Could he find a job helping those children, he wondered?
No matter what Paul did, though, the silence from heaven was deafening. Where was God's 'open door' about which he had so often heard? If there were a door—or even a window—open anywhere, Paul was hard-pressed to find it.
Then one day the phone rang and the call came. Whew, 'bout time. But the call wasn't for Paul, It was for Cyndy. On the other end was Kanakuk, a camp in Branson, Missouri. The camp was creating a new position—Director of Nursing. Would Cyndy be interested?
Paul and Cyndy talked it over. Was this the door? They prayed about it, knowing that Cyndy would be taking a fifty percent pay cut from her current job in the health field. And that Paul wasn't being offered anything by the camp.
Besides, as a child, he had only spent four days at a YMCA day camp. That was his entire camping experience. Surely a youth camp 300 miles away couldn't be his open door . . . open window . . . open anything. Could it?
Over a period of days, though, the leading they got from their prayer time was, "Go." The direction was at once both exciting and scary, for the unknown was like a two-sided coin. 'Wow' was on one side, 'Wo' was on the other. In sharing the idea with their families, both sets of parents said, "No." Big No's . . . the kind that made a man wonder if he weren't rowing about three buoys past the lighthouse.
On the other hand there was that small voice that seemed to keep saying, "Go." It was that 'seemed' which made life interesting while they put their house up for sale, began boxing and packing, and saying their good-byes.
Cyndy, too, was a dedicated follower of Christ. Periodically, she wrote in a journal during her morning quiet time. Sensing God's guidance in their lives during those days, she penned:
God's timing—so hard to grasp or to wait on. May we follow as disciples . . . not just as those who are fascinated by Him. I pray for His will to be done in our lives in His time.
Soon, all the pieces of the puzzle had come together. Except one. Paul had decided he just couldn't haul their things by himself. He checked with van lines, finding every line's prices to be higher than an airport gift shop. The lowest bidder was Mayflower at $4,900.
Getting this last estimate, Paul eased the phone down in disbelief. Staring at Cyndy, he exclaimed, "Five thousand dollars! Just for hauling furniture. We're not talking diamonds."
"And that's the cheapest," Cyndy agreed. "What do you think?"
"Well, we can't leave our things here in Texas. Let's see, maybe we can . . ." and they began doing the financial gymnastics that would get them hooked up with a van line. In the midst of this juggling act, Paul received a letter from Northwest Airlines in Oregon. The company was inviting him for a second interview, a big step closer to a full-time job as an airplane mechanic. Standing in a roomful of boxes and newspapers, they read and reread the letter. Suddenly, their open road had turned into a crossroads.
"Should we pray about it?" Cyndy wondered aloud.
Paul didn't hesitate. "No need. I know God wouldn't have pointed us so strongly toward the camp if he hadn't meant for it to be our direction. There will be something for me, too."
The next day a $5,000 check came in the mail, just like in the movies. Only this was for real. Years earlier Paul had loaned five thousand dollars to a friend. Over time they had lost contact. Paul basically had just written the whole thing off. But his old pal hadn't, and he felt compelled to send it now. Sorry it had taken so long, the letter said. Better late than never, huh? Hope it helps.
Helps? Paul and Cyndy were struck by the incredible timing. It would be the first of many 'time-released miracles' they would experience over the coming years.
"God was in this," Cyndy stated matter-of-factly.
"Yes, he was," Paul nodded. "We're heading to Missouri."
"You know," Cyndy mused, "nothing matches following God, does it?"
Paul ran his hand through his full head of hair. He was a big man with a gentle spirit. Keen insights into the heart of God were woven throughout the fabric of his soul. "Not even close," he agreed.
That evening Cyndy made a last Texas entry in her journal:
To know Jesus . . . to stand apart from the world and really grasp Him. That is my goal, with no pretense or holding back. It is never simple to serve Him, but His words are life. May I live that life to its fullest for Him.
Chapter Two 'Little Condobox By The Lake'
When it comes to summer youth camps, Kanakuk Kamp is a giant among beanstalks. It's one of the largest camps in the U.S., thus the world. Divided into eight camp sites around the Ozarks, Kanakuk annually has over 14,000 campers go through its summer programs . . . more than the populations of most American towns.
That's also a big potential for bumps, bruises, bug bites, and other camp-type maladies—both real and imagined. To tend to these various ailments, Kanakuk has a total of 110 nurses employed throughout the summer. Most have full-time jobs elsewhere, working two-week shifts while their children attend Kamp.
Until Cyndy was hired, though, there was no one person to get all the nurses on the same page. She came on board, writing her own job description as she went.
Branson, Missouri, itself is something of a marvel. The small community of 4,000 people bills itself as the "Live Music Show Capital of the World." With over 30 shows ranging from the comedy of Jim Stafford to the variety of Presley's Country Jubilee, from the world-class fiddling of Shoji Tabuchi to the country vocals of Mickey Gilley, the description may well be accurate. Each year some seven million tourists stroll along West 76 Entertainment Boulevard, taking in the music and theme parks.
One thing the musical boom has done is make Branson rental property harder to find than sunshine in a coal mine. The Teases discovered this first-hand. A realtor they had contacted ahead of time had been able to find just one condo for rent—a place so far out of town his directions for finding it were, "Head east 'til you're lost, then hang a right. Can't miss it."
So with those directions ringing in their ears, they swooped and looped around the Ozark hills. Finally, they hung that right, easing down a long and winding grade.
Post oaks and scrub cedars hugged tightly against the roadside, trying to reclaim what civilization had taken. Gradually, their vista widened into a mix of pastures and woods. At length they pulled up to the front door, just sitting for a moment and staring at the small, white-painted dwelling. Then Kayman leaned forward and voiced the thought in everyone's mind, "Is that all there is to it?
"It does look more like a shoe box than a condo," Paul agreed. "Kind of reminds me of Laura Ingall Wilder's 'Little House' books."
"It looks good to me!" Trace beamed. "Look at all this world around here!"
Cyndy opened her door, stepping out. "With Bull Shoals Lake just around the bend," she said, "we can call this our Little Condobox on the Lake. Thank goodness, the realtor let us store our things in his basement."
Once inside, they swung open three doors. That finished the tour. The furnishings were so spartan that a spider web in one corner looked like a decoration. Back in the main room, Paul asked, "Well, what does everybody think?"
"Cool," the kids chimed, then bolted outdoors for the really cool stuff.
Paul pulled Cyndy close. "And you, ma'am?"
Cyndy smiled. "I remember all the hard times before. I think back in those days God was teaching us to do on less. So I say it's cool, too." Cyndy looked in his eyes. "But what about you, Paul? Would you rather be working on airplanes in Oregon?"
"That's one bridge I'll never wonder about us crossing. I'm perfectly at peace with our decision. Let's unload. We are home."
And home they were. Over the next days and weeks they all throttled way down, going from eight-lane traffic jams to bicycle rides along country lanes. They were more likely to see deer, wild turkeys, and raccoons than people. But they enjoyed the serenity. Each day Cyndy went to Kanakuk, starting the job of coordinating their health services. Paul drove the kids to school in Branson. Then, often as not, he had time to spend back at the condo, walking the banks of Bull Shoals. There he'd watch fish leap from the sparkling waters, leaving ripples dancing in the sunlight.
It was a quiet time, a time of introspection and deepening of his spiritual roots. The job situation continued to be big, but Paul refused to let it be a shadow that blocked out God's light. Instead, he kept praying, kept knocking patiently on heaven's door, kept quietly wondering, What is it that I'm supposed to do—that we're supposed to do—with our time on this earth?
Evenings were spent around the lone table in the main room, doing family-type things—studying, playing games, visiting, just enjoying each other's company. Thus passed the winter months.
One February morning Cyndy gazed thoughtfully from the front window of the Condobox. A soft Ozark snowfall had parachuted in silently during the night. With her journal on the table before her, she wrote:
Six inches of snow cover our world this morning. We prayed for snow and God has answered abundantly. I am again reminded that He is the provider, revealing Himself to us as pure as the unblemished snow. If only I could return myself to Him so perfectly. May my faith grow pure.
In March of 1992 Kanakuk's owner, Joe White, decided it was time to take inventory of all the camp equipment—athletic, kitchen, maintenance, the works. Paul was hired for the job. In short order he found himself riding from camp to camp, looking in basements and cupboards, behind doors and cabinets, underneath porches and bunks.
A few nights later, after the kids had gone to bed, Paul and Cyndy sipped a last cup of coffee. "You know," Paul said, "I am amazed at the amount of stuff at the K camps. They've got things stuck back that I doubt have been used in years. It's incredible. Some of that equipment would have to date back to Spike's very earliest days."
Spike White, Joe's dad, was an engineering genius from Texas A&M. Spike had begun Kanakuk in the 1940's.
"I know," Cindy agreed. "I see those kinds of things propped up here and there. If we ever have a camp of our own, maybe we can buy some of Kanakuk's old athletic equipment."
They both stopped with their coffee cups in mid-air. Paul looked at her intently. "Now where did that come from?"
Cyndy's eyes widened. "I honestly don't know. Here we are, just trying to get by month to month . . ."
"Day to day," Paul interjected.
"The thought of having a camp of our own is the farthest way-out possibility in the whole world."
"Or out of this world," Paul said. "God himself would have to set the camp down here on earth, then say to us, 'There you go, walk right in.'"
"You're right," Cyndy agreed. "It'd have to be a Camp of Eden, rather than a garden. There is no way."
They sat a minute longer then stepped around the table, squeezed past a chair, hit the light switch on the way by, then called it a night. "No way at all," Paul vowed into the darkness as they left the room.
Soon the Condobox was quiet.
Meanwhile, up in heaven God himself was making his own camp plans, bringing His way into that 'no way at all.'
Chapter Three 'Camp Nurse'
The summer of '92 was a blur of activity. Long days, short nights . . . sunrise hi's and bye's. Paul was switched to camp maintenance. This was another job that let him learn more about the behind-the-scenes piping, plumbing, and wiring infrastructure of a camp. He also learned the basic underlying philosophy of camp maintenance. One day Johnny Koons, who resembled a blond Nordic Thor—replacing the hammer with a Bible—sat Paul down. Johnny was Joe's right-hand man in directing Kanakuk.
"Paul," he asked, "What time are you knocking off in the evenings?"
Paul leaned back in his chair and considered the question. "Oh, probably around nine-thirty to ten . . . give or take."
"And at it the next morning?"
"Seven."
"Give or take?" Johnny smiled.
"Right," Paul agreed. "Probably more give."
"Uh-huh. Do you ever get everything done?"
Paul ran with that thought, one that had paralleled his own thinking. "No, I don't," he stated emphatically. "And it bothers me. I try, but I never get there."
Johnny leaned forward with his elbows on his desk. "Paul, the pure truth is—you never will catch up. Nobody does. That's camp. You wake up each morning with 200,000 things to do. You've got your list. So you go through the day, and you get maybe half of the things done. If so, that's great. Then what you do is knock off at five or six, go home, be with your family, and get a good night's sleep. Forget about it.
"The next morning when you start back, you'll find that the list has grown to 200,000 again. It never gets all done. Won't in this lifetime. So relax and don't try to do it all. Okay?"
Paul nodded, mentally loosening the grip on his pace. Internally he stepped back and began to unwind. Hey, getting 100,000 things done wasn't bad. He could live with that. "Okay," he agreed with a sigh of relief.
Meanwhile, Cyndy was establishing a routine that she would follow all summer. She'd visit the nurses' stations at two to three camp sites each day . . . taking her to all eight camps twice a week, with Sundays for paper work. Her pre-camp work the previous winter had laid the groundwork for a smooth summer at each station.
Kids were everywhere. They tended to blend in a mix of summertime tans and boundless energy. Not being in one camp site permanently, there was no way Cyndy could put names with all the faces . . . unless it was a child who was chronically ill, one who was always in the nurses' office. And there weren't too many of those at a camp whose alumni included two Heisman Trophy winners.
But there was Lauren, the lone exception to Cyndy's 'Who's-that-kid?' connection. Lauren was twelve . . . blonde- haired, blue-eyed. Reminded Cyndy of Kayman. Lauren should have been right in the middle of the sea of kids, running and playing and jumping through imaginary hoops during the best summer of her life. Everybody else was. Lauren, though, practically lived at the nurses' station at K-l Camp.
On one of Cyndy's stops, the resident nurse took her aside. "Cyndy," she said seriously, "I want you to look at Lauren Hauschild. She's in here five to six times a day."
"Five to six?!" Cyndy exclaimed.
"Yes. And she always wants Ibuprofen. For her left leg. But I can't find anything wrong."
"Maybe I could look at it, too, Alice. Think she just might be homesick?"
They both considered that, giving it a maybe—a 5 on a 1-to-10 possibility scale. Homesickness could cause headaches, heartaches, and stomachaches. Maybe it could cause a leg to ache, as well. Seemed different, though.
As if to underscore their deliberations, at that moment the screen door swung outward. A young girl hesitated in the door way. "May I come in?"
"Lauren," Alice smiled. "Yes, come in. This is Mrs. Teas, our head nurse. I was just telling her about you. She'd like to take a look at your leg."
"Hi, Lauren," Cyndy said. "Can you stand on this chair?"
"Yes." Lauren stepped forward, swinging her left leg ahead of her. Once she was in the chair, Cyndy pushed on the calf and knee area. "Does that hurt?"
"No," Lauren answered, locking her jaw. "It's higher."
Cyndy probed the thigh area, detecting nothing noticeable. The homesickness theory seemed to gain credibility. Finishing the exam, Cyndy told her, "Lauren, I don't feel any bruises." Then, walking the line between firmness and gentleness, she added, "We don't mind giving you medicine if you need it, Lauren. But be sure you really do. All right?"
Lauren nodded as she eased down off the chair and slipped out of the door.
"Keep me posted, Alice," Cyndy instructed, knowing they had handled the situation as well as possible.
Sure enough, two days passed without any word. Lauren's homesick scenario was pushed to the back burner, as other minor health-type issues waxed and waned.
On her next visit to K-l Cyndy got the good word from Alice. No office drop-ins by Lauren. All was well on the left leg front. Cyndy was about to leave for her next stop, when there was a step on the front porch. Lauren stood in the doorway, tears running down her cheeks. "It hurts so bad," she whispered. "Why won't you believe me?"
In that moment Cyndy knew Lauren was hurting for real. "Come on in," she said gently. "Where's the pain? Still your upper leg?"
"Yes, but it doesn't hurt in the muscle." Lauren limped in and rotated onto a chair. "It hurts in my bone."
A chill stirred along Cyndy's spine. She recalled an observation she'd heard made by an orthopedic surgeon . . . 'If a child complains of pain in a bone, there are only two possible reasons: either the bone is broken, or the child has cancer.' And Cyndy hadn't felt any breaks.
Reaching behind her, Cyndy took an Ibuprofen bottle off a shelf. Shaking out two tablets, she handed them to Lauren. As the camper took them with a cup of water, Cyndy pulled her medical chart from a filing cabinet. Reading for a moment, she asked, "Lauren, you're from Edmond, Oklahoma, right? When you got your camp physical, did you tell the doctor about this?"
"Yes," Lauren nodded. "He said it was growing pains." Shifting position, she gritted her teeth. "It doesn't seem like growing should hurt this much."
"You're right," Cyndy agreed. "Come in whenever you need to."
A few afternoons later, at the closing ceremony of the camp session, Cyndy saw Lauren sitting on a back bench. She was in deep conversation with an attractive brown-haired woman. The similarity between the two was striking. Must be her mom, Cyndy thought. Walking over, she paused a moment.
"Excuse me," she smiled as they looked up. "I'm Cyndy Teas, the head nurse here at Kanakuk. Are you Mrs. Hauschild?"
The young woman stood, extending her hand. "Yes. I'm Debe. She was just telling me how nice everyone has been to her, especially all the nurses."
"Thank you. I know it's been tough at times for Lauren these past couple of weeks at camp. I'm sure everything will be better for her back at home."
"We hope so," Debe nodded. "I didn't know until now about her leg. Rick and I will keep a check on her throughout the rest of the summer."
"Let's stay in touch," Cyndy said. All the while she was thinking, surely the orthopedist was wrong.
So it was that the summer rolled along, with Cyndy and Paul caught up in their camp work, doing what they could each day . . . then leaving the rest for later. As for Kayman and Trace, they divided their time between the Kamp and the Condobox, loving every minute of each.
Then, before everyone blinked twice and exhaled once, Kanakuk '92 was history. Camp life had come to the Teas family.
Chapter Four 'Light At The Front Of The Tunnel'
Three months later, with brown November leaves blowing down the long hills, Cyndy worked at her desk in Kanakuk's administration building. The phone jarred her train of thought.
"Hello," she answered.
"Cyndy?" a female voice asked.
"Yes."
"This is Debe Hauschild."
"Oh, hi," Cyndy said warmly. "I've thought about Lauren so often."
There was a slight pause. "Cyndy, they amputated her leg today. Cancer." Debe's voice broke. "I know you must have thought of that possibility."
Cyndy felt her own eyes fill. "I'm so sorry, Debe. How is she doing?"
"She came through it well. And the doctor feels like he got it all. So Rick and I are thanking God. We found out two months ago about the cancer. Her first question at the time wasn't, 'Will I die?'; but, 'Does this mean I can't go back to camp next summer?' It gave me a new insight into all you do."
That evening at dinner Kayman was the first to notice Cyndy's somber mood. Normally animated, that evening Cyndy only went through the motions.
Toward the end of the meal, Kayman asked her, "Mom, are you feeling all right?"
Cyndy sat her fork down, tilting her head as she wiped a hand above her eyes. At length she looked up. "Debe Hauschild called . . ."
She paused, having their complete attention as the family waited for her to finish.
"Today Lauren lost her left leg to cancer."
Kayman broke the ensuing silence. "We'll do the dishes, Mom. Come on, Trace, let's clean up. Then we can make Lauren a card."
As the kids worked in the kitchen, Cyndy looked at Paul. "You know what Lauren's main concern was all along? Not if she would live or die, but whether she would be able to come back to camp next summer."
Paul shook his head. "It never ceases to amaze me how summer camp can become the focal point of a child's whole year. It's been the same way for Kayman and Trace. They love camp, live for it."
"Yes, but how will . . . ," Cyndy's voice trailed off as she thought about the layout of K-l with its steep hills and high-energy activities.
"Paul reached over and took her hand. "Hey, remember when we were pulling out of Dallas? You gave me that little boost. Well, here's your boost back. You'll work it out. You, Lauren . . . and the Lord."
Over the next months, as Cyndy dealt with all her pre-camp duties, in the back of her mind questions swirled. Can a girl with one leg go here? How long will it take her to do this activity? Will she be able to handle that hill?
During this same time the Teases bid farewell to their little Condobox, moving to a house in Branson. As Paul had enjoyed telling people, "We're so far from town, even the CD player fades out." But the Condobox had been theirs and they would miss it. Now, though, it was on to a real house—one that required more than three steps to cross a room, that let a fellow yawn and stretch without bumping two walls.
By the time Kanakuk opened for the 1993 season, Cyndy had established the 'Lauren Routine' in her mind. She even visited ahead of time with Lauren's cabinmates, coordinating logistics and schedules. Many of the girls were friends from the previous summer and wanted to do all they could to make things work. Every base was covered.
Then Lauren arrived . . .
And the best-laid plans began to unravel. The problem was not the physical, though for Lauren that was enough. Nor was it Lauren's own attitude, which was positive. What Cyndy hadn't been able to prepare the other girls for was the emotional impact of seeing Lauren with a prosthetic leg and no hair.
For kids one year's camp begins where the last ended. They have gone their separate ways, then are ready to pick back up where they left off. Twelve months could as easily have been twelve days, or twelve hours. For Lauren's cabinmates it was as if the pretty 13-year-old had hugged them good-bye at a Friday night football game, then shown up at school Monday morning without her left leg.
Lauren had, in fact, just come from her last chemotherapy two days before camp. Where her blonde hair had been, she now wore a bandanna. Though her leg had healed, she was still growing used to her prosthesis. Getting around the camp terrain was tough . . . getting around in people's minds even tougher.