We arrived home last night after spending six weeks in Maine's northernmost county where I am director of a summer camp.  During the last week of camp we had a guest staying with us at the camp's Staff House.  His name is Bernie, and he is 94 years old.

Bernie has been involved with Baptist Park, our summer camp, since 1950.  He was already 30 years old at the time.  His role has always been that of maintenance volunteer.  He can tell you the story of every building on the grounds as if they were his children, and he's happy to do so for anyone who would pause long enough to give him the chance.

Four years ago, at the age of 90, Bernie fell off of the roof of the building that houses our public bathrooms.  Amazingly, he was unhurt, but we had to forbid him from going up on any more roofs.  He was indignant with this policy, but he continued to come around and help with both feet firmly on solid ground.  He especially has taken a liking to my wife, Sue, and has been very generous to the arts and crafts program that she heads up.  Again this summer, he gave arts and crafts a $50 donation.

Bernie is an amazing guy. He's quick with a "Praise the Lord" when things are good and a "Praise Him anyway" when they're not. His hearing is almost perfect without hearing aids, he doesn't wear glasses, and he is completely lucid.  Is it just me, or are most of the men who live well into old age the small, wiry kind?  He does walk with a bit of a shuffle these days, and balance is becoming an issue, so he has moved in with his 60-something son "Down East".  Arrangements were made for Bernie to catch a ride up north last week, and he moved into the downstairs of the building we live in while we're there. 

At the risk of sounding self-important, being the camp director isn't a role conducive to having a 94 year old house mate.  Bernie is quite a talker, and for someone who has exceeded the average life span by 20 years, he acts like someone for whom there is all the time in the world.  I simply couldn't give him the listening ear he always sought, and I hope I was never rude to him.  That quirk aside, he was a blessing to us all.  Besides the donation to the crafts program, he helped empty trash, sort returnables, and offer words of encouragement.

But my favorite Bernie moment of the week was during chapel.  A few years ago, our daughter, Jo, introduced the camp to the contemporary worship song "The Deep Cries Out"... complete with choreography.  I watched Bernie sitting there as the kids and staff (and that week's speaker, Peter Lagasse) were joyfully dancing in the front of the Tabernacle.  What would Bernie, a lifelong, small town Baptist who came of age before Billy Graham ever preached a sermon, think of something as worldly as dancing in the a chapel service?  After the song was over, though, Bernie sidled over to our nurse and I heard him (attempt to) whisper, "We had our time.  Now it's their turn; No harm in what they're doing; I guess it's even a good thing." 

Every camp needs a Bernie.  I thank God for ours.