A rain fly is a waterproof tarp that covers a tent so rain doesn’t get in.
A vestibule is a small area where the rain fly extends beyond the tent to cover the door opening.
Sixty-four square feet. That’s the size of my big tent’s floor. It is big enough for Beth and I and some gear. I have shared a tent of similar size with two other guys, but sometimes I like to go solo and take the big tent. It is especially fun on cold camping trips. Then the sixty-four square feet allow room for me and everything I need. I keep a few extra clothes, books, lanterns, and some personal items on the inside with me and a cooler and cooking stove in the vestibule. If it is so cold or so inclement and I need to spend long periods of time in the tent, I can just kick back, stay warm, and read, sleep, or think. If I’m hungry I reach into the cooler; if want a cup of coffee I make it on the stove in the vestibule; and if I am cold I grab a sweatshirt. Sixty-four square feet can very quickly become my world. When this happens something changes in my brain and suddenly changes in my world can be upsetting. Someone moving into the site next to me, making loud noises, or coming up to “say hi” can become irritants. It’s my world, my space and these people seem like invaders. I was here first, I’ve been here longest, I am in charge, and I make the rules.
This sure sounds selfish and petty on my part, and if I was rude, or tried to chase the interlopers away, you would be right. I don’t act rudely. But to avoid that, I do find that I have to change the way I am thinking to adjust to the changed circumstances, the current reality of my life. I suppose I could pull up stakes and move to a different park but realistically, in the end, we have no more places to run. So I adjust, at least I do if I want to be happy. Adjusted a group of loudly celebrating seniors in the next site becomes an opportunity to remember my days of youthful exuberance and acknowledge that I have been them. At seven the next morning, feeling relaxed and rested, I see one of them hunched over a smoldering fire looking cold and hung over. I give him my best “been there, man” look as I walk by on the way to my truck.
Maybe that is the way we are with our neighborhoods, our towns, our land, our churches, and our homes. We begin to think that they really are ours, that we own the space, that we control it. When someone comes into our space that is not like us in race, temperament, religion, or political preference our first reaction is negative. Someone who cooks with spices that smell strange to us, who speaks with an accent, who loves a person we would not choose, or who wants to change things. Maybe the seeds of racism, political hatred, stereotypes, and religious judgmentalism lie in allowing our hearts to turn hard because we are fearful and angry that our world is changing. I wonder if this is what comes from forgetting that the world is God’s and on loan to us? Is this what comes from forgetting that everyone who is here was placed here by God? Certainly we cannot allow cruelty, violence, or persecution to go unchallenged. We must stand against some things. But how much more peace, happiness, security, and community could we have if we learned to adjust to our changing world, to repent our selfishness, and to change the way we think.
That’s what I was wondering about in my borrowed sixty-four square feet in God’s world.
