Ten years ago or so, When I was directing a Christian summer camp in northern Maine, I had one of the most awkward and unfortunate events in my life, particularly in my life of ministry. The camp was having its teen week as well as a special mission aviation camp where kids 13 to 18 could learn about aviation in missionary work and even get some flight time from our local airport. A border patrol officer from Texas was the flight instructor. Our speaker for the week was a dear friend, Donnie, who I had first met when he was the chaplain at the youth correction facility in Manchester, NH. Donnie happens to be a black man.
One evening, toward the end of the session, we had just finished our evening service and were preparing to meet in the tabernacle for some late night entertainment. During tihs transition, we all noticed a strong burning smell permeating the camp. I assumed a neighbor was burning brush, but our law enforcement friend from the Lone Star State was confident it was something more nefarious. It was marijuana he asserted with confidence. I pointed out that the tremendous amount of smoke we were smelling maybe could have been weed if we were at Woodstock, but this was Bible camp in rural Maine. Besides, it really smelled like burning brush. I learned not to question a Texas lawman, even if I was the camp director, and he was, for that week, my employee. I then pulled in a Pastor who was also the chairman of the camp board, who told me that he would take a law enforcement officer's word over mine regarding what was and wasn't a controled substance. I asked the Pastor if he ever lived in a dorm. Apparently, I'm not as funny as I thought I was.
When I was questioned as to who was unaccounted for during the transition time when the burning was first noticed, I replied, "No one had better have been unaccounted for. The counselors were to be with their campers. Period." Then the question that changed the whole evening, yes, the whole week of camp, was asked. "What about your speaker?"
I said he went back to his cabin to help his wife get their three little kids ready for bed before rejoining the late night entertainment. "So he ws unaccounted for?" Tex concluded.
"Well, no, he was putting his three kids to bed like fathers do. Besides, his wife won't even let the kids have candy, I'm sure she wouldn't allow Donnie to do bong hits in their tiny camp cabin. And, well, it's brush we're smelling, not the devil's lettuce." Tex was sure I was wrong.
I turned the evening program over to a senior counselor while Tex, Pastor President and I played a bizarre version of Dragnet. Tex pointed out how strong the odor was around the Donnie's cabin (Yeah, we were sneaking through the woods sniffing the air behind his cabin while Debra sang the kids to sleep!) I pointed out that it was just as strong outside the camp office 200 yards away from Donnie's cabin. And besides, this was way too much smoke for even ten pot heads. Besides, a neighbor is probably just burning brush. Tex felt I was covering for my friend. I shut up and continued sniffing, almost to the point of hyperventalation.
Looking more like the three stooges than the three Musketeers, we circled back toward Donnie's cabin. Tex told us if we were in Texas, he would kick the cabin door in and search it. This was even too much for the pastor/board member. Then the evening program let out, and I had to get back on duty. We decided we'd question Donnie first thing in the morning.
To Donnie's credit, when approached the next morning (Tex was , thankfully not present) he was calm and gracious. While he was assertive about it not being him or his wife, He was also sincerely concerned that someone on camp really may have been smoking. Being a pastor to troubled teens, this possibility really mattered to him. For my part, I babbled that it was an awful lot of smoke, and may have been a neighbor, and Deb wouldn't allow the kids to be around pot smoke when they couldn't even have M and M's, and Donnie, you're my friend, and I really hope you come back next year.
The camp session ended as they do at Bible camp: altar calls, rededications, exchanges of phone numbers and lots of tears. I hadn't thought a whole lot about it in recent years until the BLM movement reemerged this spring. Donnie and his family have since moved to the west coast where he is a pastor, and his three little kids are not little kids and more, and Deb probably still doesn't let them have candy. I wonder, as I did at the time, if the scenario would have played out the same had Donnie been a white man, even though I'm somberly confident I know the answer. I got a hold of him via the miracle that is Facebook, and asked his forgiveness. Gracious as ever, he assured me he felt I had defended him through it all, but if I felt I had an obligation, then get this story out for others to hear. So it is out of respect for my friend and Christian brother that I write this blog and share it with anyone who cares to read it.