The Surprising Power of Identity
JENNIFER J. CAMP
4 min read ⭑
We were in the tent when he told us what he called us, our limbs tired from hours of hiking switchbacks deep into the Eastern Sierras.
We had made camp quickly on a cliff above Heart Lake, a deep turquoise pool etched into the valley between steep granite mountains. Pines encircled the tiny footprint of the two-person tent, and with the rain fly tied back, we could see how the sun painted the valley’s sheer face hues of coral, peach and gold.
Days before, we were trying to remember the last time we did this–amidst the pulling out the black camping bins from the garage loft and stuffing packs with everything we thought we’d need for a couple of nights away–the bear vault, water filter, sleeping bags and pads, the clothing layers and headlamps and dried food.
“Has it been four years?” I offered. “Or maybe five?”
“Yeah, and definitely a first for just the two of us. This is brand new.”
Jensen Road
The first time we camped together wasn’t backpacking, but car camping–driving to Yosemite in the cold of February with our three kids when our youngest was four. We put up a tent as big as a small bedroom–filled with unnecessary accouterments we’ve since learned only first-time, nervous car campers might endure: two air mattresses and a cot, a card table and a propane-filled space heater we borrowed from a friend. The nights were cold, and we awoke our first morning to snow on the ground. But the days were warm and glorious, filled with hours of bike riding, reading “The Chronicles of Narnia,” and stick carving with red and pink Swiss Army pocket knives held in little hands that were determined and strong.
Our Yosemite trip was a trial run that kicked off a series of other multi-night camping adventures over the next ten years — each of them involving backpacking into remote and beautiful areas far from roads and where cars could never go: glaciers in Alaska, alpine lakes in Montana, the Lost Coast in California and the backcountries of Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Teton, Jasper, Lassen, Joshua Tree and Death Valley. Some trips were with friends, and some were just our family. But the five of us, as a unit, found in adventuring a shared passion. Together, we could go places and do things we’d likely never do alone.
“How much food do we need?” I asked.
“Let’s count the meals,” Justin suggested.
We did the math and filled the bear canister with more food than was necessary, but we didn’t know what we’d need. We are still figuring out what it means to feed just two people instead of what felt like the always-starving five.
Many years ago, in a group of other married couples, we heard the Father’s tender whisper of a name he called Justin and me as one flesh. It was before Justin left his career as a venture capitalist, and we dreamed of Gather Ministries. It was before we worked together, learning what we loved to do and writing full-time. But when Holy Spirit told us the name, we received it and held it close. Justin made a mint-green sign with the name and hung it where we could see it up there on the wall from our desks–the two old swiveled chairs with tables we pushed together in the converted garage.
The name he gave us felt not just inspiring but actionable. It spoke to our love for adventure and challenge — our shared desires of openness to surrender and risk. But then, a few days ago, tucked away in our little tent on the mountain, we felt the Father’s tender presence inviting us to listen again. Was there a new name? Maybe? We felt the warmth of his familiarity and love. This is undoubtedly a new season. Why not?
“What, Lord, do you call us? What, right now, as one flesh, is our name?”
We lay on our sleeping bags, cozy and warm, and closed our eyes to listen. The wind gusted the rain fly, and it flapped against the tent’s interior walls.
“Into the wild, we will follow You, Lord. And together, in this season, which is so unfamiliar, we will trust You are here and never leave. We love You. May we be your companions.”
We waited, side by side, our backs pressed to the ground. Then he showed us each a picture — both so similar to one another — and we heard his voice, close and tender and kind:
“You are My Companions,” he said.
My heart leaped; it was so beautiful and everything I could ever want.
“Yes, yes, may we be your companions,” I agreed, tears streaming down my wind-chapped cheeks.
Into the wild, we will follow You, Lord. And together, in this season, which is so unfamiliar, we will trust You are here and never leave. We love You. May we be your companions. May this name be what we hold close and take with us. May we be the children who know who they are, beloved and cherished, wanting only to be by your side.
Arrested
I will sit, paper in my lap
and wait with you
wool blanket shrugged over shoulders
and bare feet pressed to concrete floor.
I am cold, though
impending winter
in California
can be subtle,
a gentle tiptoe in morning
darkness, and I wonder
how you fill every space
and we don’t see you,
the miracle of a day,
dawn rising like ocean
tide over dry land and how
I am held here,
in this space beyond this
space and I
let my breath stay
though I am hungry to leave it,
not work so hard
to search for you
in every blade of grass
curled ribbon, smell of
fish over open fire,
every song belted under stars
and on broken bed springs
because every movement,
every cry, is your name
tattooed on my bones.
(From “The Uncovering”)
Jennifer Camp is a poet and listener who delights in investigating the deeper places of the heart. She founded Gather Ministries with her husband, Justin, and manages Loop Collective, a community for women who reject complacency and pursue connection with God.
