I’ve spent eleven summers working at camp. That’s most of my life. Most people don’t do something that long unless they really care about it—and I do. I care about this place deeply. I’ve poured myself into it, year after year. I’ve cleaned toilets and hauled trash. I’ve scrubbed moldy showers, filled water jugs until my arms were numb, and worked through thunderstorms, stomachaches, and heartbreaks. I’ve done it all, not because it was easy, but because I believed in what we were doing. Because I believed in Jesus. Because I believed that being a servant was the most important job anyone could have.

But something has changed.

It didn’t happen all at once, but I’ve been watching it happen for years now. Slowly, quietly, almost without anyone noticing. The servant’s heart is disappearing.

There used to be a culture of willingness here. If something needed to be done, someone jumped up to do it. If a job was hard, someone took it anyway. People didn’t ask, “Is this my responsibility?” They asked, “How can I help?” And it wasn’t for attention. No one expected praise. People served because they loved—because they genuinely wanted to reflect Jesus, who made himself nothing and washed his disciples’ feet.

Now I hear things like, “That’s not my job,” or “Do I have to?” Now people are quicker to pull out their phones than to pull on gloves. There’s more standing around than stepping in. There’s more frustration than initiative.

And it breaks my heart.

Because camp doesn’t run on convenience. It doesn’t run on vibes, or performances, or big personalities. It runs on people who are willing to do the work no one sees. It runs on sacrifice. On quiet, behind-the-scenes, messy work. On the counselor who cleans the bathroom for their co-counselor. On the support staff member who doesn’t complain when they’re assigned to the worst job. On the person who says yes, even when they’re tired.

Jesus never chased the spotlight. He didn’t wait for people to ask him to serve—he just did. He stepped into the dirt. He touched the sick. He fed the hungry. He knelt low and washed feet that were cracked and filthy. If Jesus could serve in that way, then who are we to act like we’re above any job?

I’m not saying this out of judgment. I’m saying it because I’m grieving. Because I remember what it felt like to be part of a team where everyone gave their all. Where the hardest jobs got done first, not last. Where people raced to help, not to hide. Where service wasn’t something we did—it was who we were.

And I know we can get back there. I still believe in this place. But something has to shift.

We have to talk about it. We have to model it. We have to stop glorifying only the fun parts of camp and start honoring the hard parts, too. We have to remind each other that scrubbing a bathroom can be holy. That taking out the trash can be worship. That filling a water jug can be an act of love.

Because the Gospel isn’t just preached in the chapel. It’s preached when you show up, when you stay late, when you serve someone who doesn’t even know you did it. That’s the heart of Jesus. That’s what this place is supposed to be about.

So yes—I miss the servant’s heart.
But more than that, I want it back.
I want us to remember what it means to serve like Jesus did—fully, humbly, and without needing to be seen.

Because this place won’t survive without servants.
And Jesus doesn’t need our performance.
He needs our yes.

Even if no one else hears it but Him.