The Dance Of A Lifetime



　

In the summer recess between freshman and

sophomore years in college, I was invited to

be an instructor at a high school leadership

camp hosted by a college in Michigan. I was

already highly involved in most campus activities,

and I jumped at the opportunity.

　

About an hour into the first day of camp,

amid the frenzy of icebreakers and forced

interactions, I first noticed the boy under the

tree. He was small and skinny, and his obvious

discomfort and shyness made him appear

frail and fragile. Only 50 feet away, 200 eager

campers were bumping bodies, playing, joking

and meeting each other, but the boy under the

tree seemed to want to be anywhere other

than where he was. The desperate loneliness

he radiated almost stopped me from approaching

him, but I remembered the instructions from

the senior staff to stay alert for campers who

might feel left out.

 

As I walked toward him I said, "Hi, my name is

Kevin and I'm one of the counselors. It's nice

to meet you. How are you?"

In a shaky, sheepish voice he reluctantly

answered, "Okay, I guess."

　

I calmly asked him if he wanted to join the

activities and meet some new people. He

quietly replied, "No, this is not really my thing."

　

　

I could sense that he was in a new world,

that this whole experience was foreign to him.

But I somehow knew it wouldn't be right to

push him, either. He didn't need a pep talk,

he needed a friend. After several silent

moments, my first interaction with the boy

under the tree was over.

At lunch the next day, I found myself leading

camp songs at the top of my lungs for 200

of my new friends. The campers were eagerly

participated. My gaze wandered over the

mass of noise and movement and was

caught by the image of the boy from under

the tree, sitting alone, staring out the window.

I nearly forgot the words to the song I

was supposed to be leading. At my first

opportunity, I tried again, with the same

questions as before: "How are you doing?

Are you okay?"

　To which he again replied, "Yeah, I'm alright. I

just don't really get into this stuff".

　

As I left the cafeteria, I too realized this was

going to take more time and effort than I had

thought - if it was even possible to get through

to him at all.

That evening at our nightly staff meeting, I made

my concerns about him known. I explained to

my fellow staff members my impression of him

and asked them to pay special attention and

spend time with him when they could.

　

　

The days I spend at camp each year fly by

faster than any others I have known. Thus,

before I knew it, mid-week had dissolved into

the final night of camp and I was chaperoning

the "last dance". The students were doing all

they could to savor every last moment with

their new "best friends" - friends they would

probably never see again.

　

　As I watched the campers share their

parting moments, I suddenly saw what would

be one of the most vivid memories of my life.

The boy from under the tree, who stared blankly

out the kitchen window, was now a shirtless

dancing wonder. He owned the dance floor

as he and two girls proceeded to cut up a rug.

I watched as he shared meaningful, intimate time

with people at whom he couldn't even look just

days earlier. I couldn't believe it was him.

In October of my sophomore year, a late-night

phone call pulled me away from my chemistry

book. A soft-spoken, unfamiliar voice asked

politely, "Is Kevin there?"

　

"You're talking to him. Who's this?"

"This is Tom Johnson's mom. Do you remember

Tommy from leadership camp?

　

The boy under the tree. How could I not

remember?

　　

"Yes, I do", I said. "He's a very nice young

man. How is he?"

An abnormally long pause followed, then Mrs.

Johnson said, "My Tommy was walking home

from school this week when he was hit by a

car and killed." Shocked, I offered my condolences.

　

　"I just wanted to call you", she said, "because

Tommy mentioned you so many times. I wanted

you to know that he went back to school this fall

with confidence. He made new friends. His grades

went up. And he even went out on a few dates.

I just wanted to thank you for making a difference

for Tom. The last few months were the best

few months of his life."

　

                                In that instant, I realized how easy it is to give

a bit of yourself every day. You may never know

how much each gesture may mean to someone

else. I tell this story as often as I can, and

when I do, I urge others to look out for their own

"boy under the tree."

~by David Coleman and Kevin Randall~

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