shades of flannel

I just got back from camping with a group of men from my church. We went to an amazing lake up near Mt. Hood, here in Oregon. I’ve tried to remember the last time I went camping, but I can’t. The last trip I remember was about 5 or 6 years ago with some friends, but I can’t be sure. My memory has become very sketchy these days. A topic for another blog entry perhaps.

It’s weird that I haven’t pitched my tent in the Great Outdoors for a while, because I really enjoy it. I love the uneasy feeling of being out of cell phone range. I love that the only scheduling decisions I have to make are whether to take a nap in a hammock strung between two trees or spend time fussing with my tarp castle.

It’s so peaceful, restful, and relaxing, but I have to admit one of the great draws for me is The Battle…you know, me versus the elements. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Bear Grylls from the TV show “Man vs. Wild”. You’ll never catch me eating the raw meat off a dead zebra carcass to stay alive or foraging for ants (apparently “an excellent source of protein!”). For this trip I set up a futon mattress in the back of my truck. Not exactly roughing it, but my neck might never be the same.



But I don’t go to the other extreme either. You won’t find me in an epic struggle to readjust the satellite dish on top of my air conditioned recreational vehicle, or making my camping plans based on the proximity of the nearest Starbucks (my first stop when I came down off the mountain. “Make that a triple Venti Mocha please”).

I think what I like most is that feeling of being a kid again building forts that don’t let in any light or rain, and making stuff out of sticks and rocks. I love the struggle to make do with whatever is available. There’s no satisfaction like settling in for the night after building a fortress out of a combination of tarps, branches, bungee cords, ropes, and…oh yeah…futon mattresses.

The best discovery about this weekend though, had to do with the fifty, or so, guys I went with. I didn’t really know many of them before the trip. My closest buds at church weren’t able to go, so I almost didn’t go myself. What a huge loss that would’ve been.

From Friday night to Sunday morning I sat and talked with guys from all walks and stages of life. College students and grandpas. Blue collar workers and executives. Rugged outdoorsman and, well, guys like me. And do you want to know the best thing about it? I couldn’t tell the difference! When guys are camping, and they’re in all shades of flannel, you can’t tell a mill worker from an investment banker. It’s truly a beautiful thing. When you strip everyone down to the blue jeans, flannel shirts and work boots, we’re all just a bunch of guys readjusting our tarps and playing with fire.



As I sat around the campfire gnawing on some fresh trout, talking to my new friends, I was struck by this thought. This must be how God views us. In his eyes we’re all the same…just a bunch of guys that He’d love to have a relationship with. I think that’s probably why it was easy for Jesus to hang out with people of all walks of life, from the disgustingly religious to the outcasts of society that no one else would have anything to do with. To him, they’re all just a bunch of guys in flannel. I love that!

Well, I need to run. I’ve got an appointment with my chiropractor. I wonder if he likes to camp?