The little city that rises Labor Day weekend in the Michigan woods is not permanent. Though each year has strong similarities to the previous year, with neighbors rubbing up against last year’s neighbors, it is a fluid and mobile little community.
We arrive midday on Friday and find ourselves the first to set up camp. Savoring the silence of the wide fields and woods, we unpack, scope out the site, and begin to build our little weekend world. Slowly over the next six hours more families arrive, campers roll into place, tents are pitched, canopies raised. A small city emerges, built by human hands.
The genius is that this is a heavenly city, even if it is one built by human hands. These families gather because they want to live together once again, briefly, and share their lives and their Lord. For many, the yearly routine has stretched over decades. The little children of 30 years ago are the parents of today, and yesterday’s parents are now grandparents -- gray and a little less mobile, but here. Today’s little children only vaguely know there is history, but their very presence celebrates generational connection, year after year. They relish today, the freedom to run and yell and play, unfettered by fences and walls.
The weekend takes on a rhythm of its own. I rise early, knowing that already the Engineer is building a fire outside my tent, with either Bug or Joy Boy at his side, wrapped in a blanket. My job is to crank up the ancient Coleman stove and make coffee, and then begin the breakfast process. As our three generations gather around the table to eat, the scene is echoed up and down the line of tents and campers. Later we’ll explore the woods, the water, the slides and zipline, the bikes and bike paths. We’ll crowd into the rustic chapel and sing till the rafters rise, open our Bibles together and worship the Lord. Some in the group we know well, others are simply familiar faces we’ve seen other years. A little world, captured for a brief weekend, frozen in time.
By day children of all ages dash around the camp, parents watching and sharing the watch. “I’ve got the playground covered,” you hear, or “Anyone taking kids to the lake?” The teens actually unplug all their electronics and feast on soccer and zipline, the infamous blog at the waterfront, and messing around in boats like something out of “The Wind in the Willows.” There’s a bit of complaining at the lack of electronic media, but for the most part the sounds of their laughter almost rise above the little ones. At night we tuck the little kids into bed and then gather around the fires, talking into the dark night about life, family, God, and more about life. As we huddle closer to get warm, we share deeply, listening and learning from each other. The messages are dissected and digested, and processed but our talk goes far beyond what is presented in chapel.
When Labor Day comes, the little city slowly disappears into the sunshine, one tent or camper at a time. By the time we leave, there is almost no one else around and once again the fields and woods stretch out untouched. We leave refreshed, restored, and renewed, even on weekends when the weather has been terrible and we’ve huddled under umbrellas.
We come knowing this will end, but also knowing, Lord wiling, we’ll come again. We recognize that living in celestial cities will never be long term on earth, but somehow, in the woods and fields and smoke, we’ve tasted a little bit of heaven.
All the while, year after year, decade after decade, we are looking for a city whose builder and maker is God.
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