It happened 45 years ago this week.

I went away to camp for the first time.

I was 10 years old and had never been away from home, separated from my parents, for an extended period. Our Minister of Music at church awarded some of us in childrens' choir the opportunity and privilege to go to Childrens' Music Week at our denominational state assembly grounds, Eagle Eyrie, in Lynchburg, VA for 6 days.

I didn't want to go.

Call it late separation anxiety or whatever you like. I didn't want to leave the familiar surroundings of home and family. In all my fears and forebodings I probably begged my mom and dad not to make me go. I was actually afraid as I recall.

I am so very thankful all these many years later that my parents did not give in to my pleadings. They insisted that I go. They packed my suitcase and sent me off with the other kids.

New friends were acquired. There was fresh scenery. Beautiful mountains. Different foods. Great music to learn and present. My horizons were expanded and I was stretched as I had to do some things for myself that my folks normally did for me. I was impacted by new ideas and impressions and the change in pace and locale.

I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I had just stayed home that week. I think being away profoundly affected me. From then on, I wanted to go on all church trips. The travel bug really bit me. Since that July camp decades ago I have been lots of places and my heart's desire is to see as much of the world as I can. It was like whole vistas opened up for me back then. Maybe that's why these days I'm such a big proponent of, and cheerleader for, kids going to camps and on retreats and off on mission trips.

Even as adults, though, there's a part of us, down deep inside, that prefers to remain where we are. We struggle with change. We seek out the comfortable, the secure. It's easier that way. It's more predictable. More manageable. But we have to resist that impulse. We gotta keep moving and growing and reaching and learning and exploring. If we don't we'll get stale and stuck in a rut. We'll have less and less fresh water to offer other people. We'll become stagnant and boring. It's imperative that we move out of our comfort zones. Read a book. Learn a new skill or develop another hobby. Take a trip. Volunteer for some ministry or engage in a venue of community service. Visit art and history museums. Brainstorm lots of options when problem-solving.

Sometimes I reflect on whether my response to the approach of death eventually will be like my deal with going to camp those long years ago.

Will I dread it? Will I put up all those old resistances? Will I cling, white-knuckled and tenaciously, to this life when the summons comes to journey to the world beyond? I don't know. I just don't know. The fears and apprehensions may surface again because the next life is, still, so unknown to us. And we like it here. We're settled. We feel safe. It's all so natural. We shudder at the thought of breathing our last breath here and going somewhere to stay that we've never been before.

There is comfort, however, as I ponder all this. I have a savior, Jesus Christ, who has already taken that trip and come back to tell about it. He died and then rose from the grave. His saving work on the cross and through an empty tomb assures me as His child that everything will be okay when I come down to my final days.

And I have a heavenly Father who, like my earthly mom and dad in 1962, will not yield to my fright but will lovingly and firmly encourage me to launch out on the journey of a lifetime. He'll say, "Come on. Take my hand. You can't begin to dream or imagine what's in store for you out there. So much to see and hear and taste and explore and feel. So many worlds. So many sunrises. And absolutely nothing to be afraid of, ever. Come. It's just a step." Talk about the ultimate adventure! Wow.

I guess tiny newborns know something of this. They struggle through the birth canal and cry as they enter this loud, bright, cold, big place even as those who eagerly await their arrival smile with delight. After they've been here a little while and gotten their bearings, if they somehow could remember their former existence in that cramped, dark, humdrum, albeit warm and cozy atmosphere known as mother's womb, would they want to go back to it? Would they trade the exhilirating colors and shapes and sounds and trees and beaches and giraffes and symphonies and pizzas of this new place for their previous residence? I seriously doubt it. Life here becomes a fascinating trek.

It will be the same for us when we embark for Heaven. Tough to let go of the here and now, but incredibly awesome when we get on that side.

Thanks, Mama and Daddy, for not relenting in July, 1962, but insisting that I go to Eagle Eyrie. You probably never knew that you were altering my life direction for the good.