And so it began--(the prologue)

The hills of Southern Missouri disrupt the table-top flatness of the Midwestern landscape. Winding through them en route to Kamp Kanakuk, I missed the monotony of corn and big skies. The day started hot and turned miserable. The AC gave up twelve minutes from home. The breeze from the window carried me, sweat and all, through Indiana, Illinois, and into Missouri. I’d spent the preceding summer months working a two man crew—eight hour shifts shoveling mud and laying grass seed. My partner, Leo, was a crafty Mexican with a knack for fixing things. The summer had already been littered with a number of painful goodbye’s. Ten young men—boys, rather—would soon find themselves under my jurisdiction, under “my” plywood roof in Cabin 1. Leadership seemed foreign and awkward, like balancing a millstone on my head. Any deaths would, of course, be my responsibility, but the camp directors had already warned us of far more solemn calamities.

The application process for joining Kanakuk’s nationwide staff of 2,000+ began at their high-impact presentation in a banquet room at school last year. A maze of different camps featuring the latest and greatest stuff: endless opportunities. The videography was rocking—awesome—as was the speaker and the interview. I didn’t know if I’d pass the interview or if my Philosophy major would get in the way. I knew they’d like me, but I didn’t know if they’d hire me. But their job offer came excitedly through email a few months later, and my acceptance letter was met by a Get-Krunked-for-Jesus reply that boasted of the best summer in cosmos history.

The valleys surrounding Branson deepened as the distance to camp dwindled. I had driven the route once before, going to round one of staff training in mid-May. This time through, the July sun was faithfully baking my green Honda and me with it. I stopped for my final pre-Kamp meal—Subway—watching CNN on a surprisingly clear, wall-mounted flatscreen. Goodbye, world. I finished my foot-long BaconCheddarRanch and strolled back out to my car, noting how much I preferred corn to Krunk-ness.

Staff training lasted three days, though round 1 had lasted two weeks. The male counselors reported to the boy’s gym. Camp leadership fortified their initial warnings about counselors who “coasted”—reminding us that their campers missed out on eternity. Then they prayed for us, with everything they had. And then we all screamed: the intensity climbed to rock-your-face-off levels. The next four weeks were going to be about the kids. About Jesus. About awesome.