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~
Designed by
Stella
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