L’Arcada is an evangelical Christian organization
that offers Gospel-filled summer camps to kids and families across Spain. They
have a 550-acre plot of land in the mountains of northern Spain, only 40
kilometers from the French border. Kids come for a week and stay in teepees
instead of tents (for some reason, Native Americans are really popular in
Spain), learning valuable life lessons while participating in typical camp
activities such as rock climbing and swimming. Camp lasts until the last
weekend of August, when the missionaries shut everything down and start
planning for next year’s itinerary.
Political correctness is not quite as important in northern Spain
Our church has supported two missionaries from this
camp, Pedro and Vicky Adrover, for some time. Because of my Spanish language
background, church members often asked me if I’d go over and help some summer.
While I was interested, I didn’t want to go just to go; I wanted to make sure
God was calling me there. So it was always on the back burner. But last year, I
started thinking about it more and more. After actually meeting Vicky and Pedro
to talk about the possibility, and weeks of prayer, I signed up for a mission
trip, which quickly grew from six weeks to twelve: August 6-Oct. 30.
The plan was simple: drop Faeth off at the airport
in the morning and grab a bus to Girona, where missionaries from L’Arcada would
pick me up and take me to camp to start my three-month mission trip. There was
only one catch: Faeth missed her flight home. We left two hours early to get to
the airport, but in hindsight, we should have ignored our hostel receptionist’s
advice to take the train and instead just have hired the more expensive taxi.
As it was, we arrived at the airport too late for Faeth to get through security.
The lady at the counter was no help whatsoever (I have discovered many Spaniards
do not take much pride or care in their work). By the time we realized the
inevitable, I was surprisingly calm. Two weeks earlier, I would have freaked
out, but now I saw that there was nothing we could do about it right then so
there was no need to panic. Instead, we pooled the last of our euros together
and just barely had enough to buy two tickets instead of one for the bus to
Girona. I would just take Faeth to camp with me.
When we arrived in Girona and met Vicky and Pedro,
they were surprised to find an extra guest, but they were very understanding
when they heard what had happened. They took us to camp, gave us some lunch and
helped us settle into our teepee, which we would share with several other girls.
We met David and Debbie Frank, the founders of the camp and former directors,
who now work with international volunteers (that’s us!). They said Faeth could
stay as long as she needed until we could find her a flight home. Then we had
to call our parents and let them know what had happened. They took the news
pretty well, too. After all, there was nothing to do now but try to switch
tickets, and at least we were safe with friendly missionaries instead of
wandering the country by ourselves.
This was actually a lot more comfortable than many of the hostels we visited
In the end, our mom came through for us
spectacularly and snagged Faeth a ticket home Friday morning, only three days
later. Until then, she hung out at camp with me and helped the mission team get
ready for the next camp session. We’d come in during “training” week, when
mission teams arrived and prepared to help in camp sessions, which occurred every
other week. There was lots to do to get ready for the 120 kids and parents who’d
be showing up in a few days.
Between getting accustomed to camp life and helping
prepare for the start of next week’s camp, the days went fast. Before we knew
it, it was time for Faeth to go home. Her flight left at 10:45 a.m., which
meant we needed to be there at 7:45 a.m., which meant we had to leave at 6 a.m.
We didn’t get much sleep that night! I insisted on going along to see my sister
off, especially since this was the first time she was going to fly alone. We got
her checked in, checked her bag and walked her to the security line. Then I had
to give her a last hug and let her go. It’s funny—during our two-month travel adventure,
there were times I regretted even traveling with her, times I was so angry at
her I wanted to punch her in the nose or storm off never to return. But as I
watched her move further and further along the line and further and further
away from me, I remembered just how much I love my little sister. And I burst
into tears thinking about going on without her by my side.
Hasta luego!
Faeth arrived home just fine. I was on pins and needles the whole day until I received a call the next afternoon (stupid 7-hour time difference) from my dad letting me know they’d picked her up without problems. Call it big-sister protection instinct. Sure, we can get on each other’s nerves sometimes (especially when we’re confined in small rooms for two months!), but she’s my sister, and I love her. And I’m so thankful for the opportunity to explore a continent with her. The bumps in the road where definitely worth it. What a blessing! And what an adventure!
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