The Disciples say they were praising, like to explain the sweatiness, but we're not even Charismatics.
What I suspect, and Pastor Ron concurred after I explained it, is that they were wrestling, adult wrestling.
"This is truly beyond me," Pastor Ron says. Then, he asks if I mind calling their parents?
Which, goodness, that was an awkward pair of conversations. Blake's mom implied that she wouldn't be informing Blake's father as, her words not mine, he would kick the living Jesus out of Blake if he ever found out that his son is, which he isn't. And, would I mind keeping this confidential?
Which, yes, of course. Because for me, it's not about Sodom and Gomorrah, or Adam and Steve jokes. There's a guy at the office in Payroll who is, or at least we all suspect he is, and I don't mind.
But then, the rest of the afternoon and later at Dinner too, I can't help but think: what if that were me? What if I were the one getting a phone call about my Tyler’s adult wrestling with another boy? I don't know. Tyler's a Fisher of Men, the youngest group at Camp. This is his first year, and Deb was right: he’s a little anxious about being away from home. That night, after Worship, Pastor Ron has me announce that the Prayer Meadow is closed due to a wild animal sighting. A wolf, actually, is what I say. A wolf that had attacked two Disciples in the Meadow.
I noticed a lot of the other Dads exchanging knowing glances, since, by then, most everyone knew how the Meadow had been defiled, and that the wolf reasoning was more metaphorical, if anything.
Next day at Swimming, Tyler keeps trying to wade out to the diving pontoon where the other Fishers of Men are.
"No, no, Sport. Stay near the shore," I tell him.
Because for one: he's not the greatest swimmer. And two: I can't stop thinking about how those Disciple boys literally discipled the Fishers of Men. They were basically pseudo-counselors for the younger Campers. So who knows what kind of residual influence there might be?
Tyler gets bored of swimming. So I say: what about some catch with your old man? And I grab the mitts.
Then, Mr. Garret pulls me aside and puts his ball-cap over his mouth, like to whisper, and asks me: "Are you, or are you not, seeing what I'm seeing?" And he points out two Fishers of Men, both of them Campers from Tyler's cabin, who are holding each other spooning-style and jumping off the pontoon and then sinking down to the lake floor.
We watch them do this a couple times.
"Could be a game," I say.
"Could be," Mr. Garret says. "Could be foreplay."
And, I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.
But then, they do it again. Only, this time they stay underwater, frankly, just way too long.
Mr. Garret Mississippi-counts them to almost 30 seconds. He shoots me a look, like saying: See, see that?