When I was a boy, our church had a summer camp. For one week every summer, we had the opportunity to get out of the heat of Baltimore, to play, to swim, to enjoy good friends, and to learn more about the Lord. After all, it was a church camp. Prior to the experience each year, all those who were registered to participate were given instructions about what to bring, what not to bring, and so on. And one of the items that was listed as absolutely to be included was a blank postcard. You see, the second evening of camp had a time set aside for writing home, and the postcard was necessary for that purpose.

I hated that. Most of the other campers hated it too. It was not that we minded writing to Mom and Dad; we just never knew what to say. "Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda, Things are fine at Camp Gr…