From TDH to Tumble Oak

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There is something about camp that refuses to let you leave unchanged.

Every year I think I know what to expect. I know the long days are coming. I know my body will ache in places I forgot could ache. I know sleep will be scarce, coffee will become a necessity instead of a luxury, and somehow every piece of clothing I packed will smell faintly of campfire by the end of the week.

And yet every year, God surprises me.

This week was no exception. It started with what has now become one of my favorite camp memories—not because it was graceful, but because it absolutely wasn't.

Within what felt like the first five minutes of camp, I fell. Not a little stumble. A full, memorable tumble down a hill that earned me a new identity for the week: TDH—Torri Down the Hill.

Once camp kids give you a nickname, there's no escaping it. For the rest of the week, every hill became an opportunity for someone to ask if TDH needed assistance. Every conversation somehow circled back to my dramatic debut. By the end of the week, I had accepted my fate. Honestly? I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Because camp has a funny way of reminding us not to take ourselves too seriously. The laughter mattered. But so did everything that came after.

What most people didn't see was what happened immediately after the fall.

Before "TDH" became the joke of the week, my best friends helped me up, brushed me off, and made sure I was okay. At the time, I thought he had rescued me from a hill. I didn't realize until later that week he would rescue me again.

This wasn't an easy week. Some of the campers carried stories much heavier than backpacks. Stories of hurt. Stories of uncertainty. Stories of questions they didn't know how to ask. Stories that reminded me how young people are often carrying far more than adults realize.

I wasn't walking into camp untouched either. I carried some hard things of my own.

There were moments throughout the week when conversations with campers somehow mirrored conversations God had already been having with me. They would ask a question, share a fear, or wonder where God was in the middle of something difficult, and I would quietly realize that I needed the answer just as much as they did.

As the week went on, pieces of my own story found their way into those conversations—the broken places, the chapters that still ache, the parts God is still redeeming.

One evening, after sharing some of those pieces, one of the campers quietly asked, "Can I pray for you?"

I spend so much of my life praying for others. Encouraging them. Pointing them toward hope. I don't always stop long enough to let someone minister to me.

Standing there while a young person prayed over me was one of the holiest moments of the week.

It reminded me that the Kingdom doesn't work in one direction. Sometimes the people you come to lead become the very people God uses to care for you.

Isn't that just like God? We think we're showing up to lead. But sometimes He brings us there so we can heal alongside the people we're serving.

There were moments when ministry looked exactly like I imagined—leading worship, laughing during games, cheering kids on, watching them pray, seeing friendships form, listening as they began to trust one another.

But there were just as many moments when ministry looked much quieter. It looked like sitting beside someone. Listening more than speaking. Holding space for tears. Offering encouragement. Praying silently while someone searched for the right words.

Sometimes the most holy moments weren't on the schedule at all. They happened while walking down trails, standing in line, sharing snacks, or simply sitting beside someone. Those are the moments I'll remember.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that...I learned how to crochet. One of the campers patiently sat beside me, showing me stitch after stitch, correcting my mistakes with far more grace than I deserved. It made me smile thinking about how often adults assume we're always the teachers. This week, I was the student.

There's something beautiful about allowing yourself to be taught by someone younger than you. It's humbling. It's joyful. It's exactly the kind of Kingdom picture Jesus talked about.

But that wasn't the end of the story.

The same camper quietly worked on a surprise throughout the week.

By the end of camp, they handed me a tiny crocheted octopus.

Well... Not exactly an octopus. A Twelfthopus. Instead of eight arms, he has twelve.

And because camp has a way of turning ordinary moments into legendary ones, it didn't take long for the Twelfthopus to receive a proper name: Tumble Oak.

Named after my now-infamous tumble down the hill and unplanned landing in a tree.

I laughed so hard I cried.

What started as one of my most embarrassing moments became one of my favorite memories. Even more than that, it became something tangible I could take home—a reminder that joy has a way of growing out of unexpected places.

Every time I look at Tumble Oak sitting on my desk, I won't just remember falling down a hill. I'll remember a camper who noticed me. Who spent hours creating something with their own hands. Who turned a joke into a gift. Who reminded me that sometimes the smallest acts of kindness become the things we treasure the most.

Maybe that's what camp does better than anywhere else. It takes ordinary moments and quietly transforms them into holy ones. The fall became a nickname. The nickname became a Twelfthopus named Tumble Oak. The conversations became healing. And somewhere in the middle of serving everyone else, God quietly reminded me that He hadn't forgotten to care for me too.

Some of my favorite memories happened after everyone else had gone to bed.

Long after the campers were finally asleep, my best friend and I would sit together with cups of coffee, processing the day. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. We celebrated little victories. We prayed over campers. We wondered where God was leading them next. Those late-night conversations became their own kind of sacred space.

And on the nights when the weight of my own story finally caught up with me, he simply stayed. He held me as I cried. He reminded me that I didn't have to carry everything alone.

The first time he rescued me was from the hill.

The second time, he rescued me from believing I had to hold myself together.

The weather seemed to mirror the week itself. Some days the wildfire smoke hung heavy in the air. Some days the sky was brilliantly blue. Some days were unbearably hot. Every day was sweaty. Every day was tiring. Every day was worth it.

Because ministry has never depended on perfect conditions. God moves in the smoke.

He moves in the sunshine. He moves in exhaustion. He moves in laughter. He moves in coffee-fueled mornings. He moves in late-night conversations. He moves in campers teaching counselors to crochet. He moves in Twelfthopuses named Tumble Oak. He moves in stories that are still healing.

This year's theme was You Rock, and throughout the week we kept returning to the reminder that God is our Rock—the One who remains steady when everything else feels uncertain. I watched campers begin to believe that. And somewhere along the way, I found myself believing it more deeply too.

I came home smelling like campfire. Covered in bug bites. Running on far less sleep than I should. Still occasionally answering to TDH. But I also came home reminded that ministry is rarely polished. It's dusty. It's sweaty. It's loud. It's unpredictable. It's exhausting. And it is one of the most beautiful places to watch God work.

I'm grateful for every camper who trusted me with part of their story. For the camper who reminded me that sometimes the most powerful prayer is the one you never expected to receive. For the camper who taught me to crochet and somehow turned my most embarrassing moment into a little crocheted reminder that joy has a way of outlasting the fall. For the kind of friendship that shows up without being asked—whether that's running down a hill to help you up or sitting beside you long after everyone else has gone to bed.

For every laugh. Every tear. Every cup of coffee. Every clear sky. Every smoky one.

And yes... Even every hill.

Because sometimes the best stories begin with a fall.

And sometimes they end with a Twelfthopus named Tumble Oak.

But always they end with a God who walks beside us the whole way.