Who needs a carrier anyways?

My parents give me a hard time for never taking the easy route. Sometimes I knowingly choose what’s hardest. Sometimes I think the hardness chooses me, but they’re right. I’m often trouble. While camping this past weekend, I repeatedly picked the toughest way to carry wood.

Strategically staying at campsite #2, my friends and I were yards from the wood shed where we could take a “rack” for $3—on an honor system. I kept wondering how many logs exactly make a rack, given that the shed had no racks or organization at all. It was just really a big mess of wood—and some of it wet, which I thought warranted a discount of some sort. But anyways, I’d load up my arms, usually with four, maybe five, logs. This would get awkward by the fourth or fifth one as I tried to hold the other three or four with one arm, while the other arm lifted the last one on top. Then, when I got the right amount, usually a little more than the right amount because I’d be cursing by the time I got back to our site about to drop them all on my feet, I’d roll them all back against my chest, and voila ... back to our camp site with a rack, half a rack, one-fourth of a rack ... I’m not sure. And usually I had a nice scratch or two on my forearm and lots of wood chips/pieces/dirt on my shirt and sleeves.

Well, one of my friends is an Eagle Scout. So, when I say “we went camping,” really I should say “my friend took us camping.” But he has this handy-dandy wood carrier. It’s a rectangular piece of sturdy canvas with two leather handles on the ends. You can lay this thing down, load up your wood and then carry it easily and cleanly. When I’d jump up to grab us more wood, he’d ask if I wanted his carrier. Nope. No thanks. My arms are just fine. “I’m cool,” I’d tell him. Who needs a carrier anyways? So, off I’d go, sometimes with my other friend who also passed on the carrier. We’d return arms sore. Well, one time I finally acquiesced and took the carrier. I was pleased because, just as I suspected, it was more of a hassle then it was worth. I thought it only made the process more awkward. I proudly told my Eagle Scout friend that this little eagle-ette did not need a carrier. He just shook his head.

So, next time we needed wood, he went and got it. He took his carrier, and when he got back to our fire, I saw how a person is really supposed to use the carrier. Of course, I had been using it the wrong way. Watching him, it made so much sense. Why wouldn’t you carry it like my Eagle Scout friend was?

On our second morning, I woke up before my friends, and I was cold. So, I took the carrier (looking to make sure no one saw me taking it) to the wood shed and filled ‘er up so I could start a fire. I carried it the right way and because of this, I actually carried more wood on that trip than any of the other wood trips I had taken. And I didn’t get any scratches on my arm, and my pjs didn’t get dirty either. I literally smiled as I walked back to camp thinking about how ridiculous I am (and also really pleased that my Eagle Scout friend was still sleeping ... I didn’t want him to know his carrier was kind of cool!). I repeatedly choose the hard route in life, when it’s so not necessary. I’m always telling God, nope, I’m cool. I got it all under control. That is until logs go everywhere and the fire goes out. He offers comfort, hope, forgiveness, and I so often fail to accept these things. He’s the wood carrier! Accepting Him doesn’t mean that there isn’t going to be wood to carry in life, or that you’re not going to have to build any muscles, but dang, it means it’s a whole lot easier and cleaner and better!

Camp site #2 was also strategically close to the bathrooms ... er ... holes in the ground. So, it was midnight, and I grabbed the flashlight to go traipsing through the dark woods to use the bathroom. My girlfriend asked me if I wanted her to come with me. No. I can go to the bathroom alone. I didn’t want to make her come to the smelly holes either. She was nice and warm by the fire. I’m a big girl, I thought. I'm fine. So, off I go with my big-girlness and my flashlight. But when I got to the outhouse I couldn’t make myself go in. I stood there staring at the door thinking there was no way I could open it. And even if I did open it, was I really going to stay in there alone long enough to use the bathroom? I think not. It was way too creepy. (All I could think about was the little ladykiller from “The Shack”) So, I trudged back to camp and sheepishly smiled at my friend. Um, well, yeah, can you come with me? She did. Happily.