I
n the summer recess between freshman and sophomore years in college, I was invited to be an instructor at a high-school camp hosted by a college in Michigan. Because I was already highly involved in most extracurricular activities, I jumped at the opportunity.
About an hour into the first day of camp, I first noticed the boy under the tree. He was small and skinny, and his obvious discomfort and shyness made him appear frail and fragile. Only fifty feet away, two hundred eager campers were playing and joking, but this boy seemed not to want to be anywhere other than where he was. The loneliness he radiated almost stopped me from approaching him, but I remembered the instructions from the senior staff to stay alert for campers who might feel left out.
As I walked toward him, I said, "Hi, my name is Kevin, and I'm one of the counselors. It's nice to meet you." In a shaky, sheepish voice he reluctantly answered, "Okay, I guess." I asked him if he wanted to join the activities and meet some new people. He quietly replied, "No, this is not really my thing."
I could sense that he was in a strange world. But I somehow knew it wouldn't be right to push him, either. He didn't need a pep talk; he needed a friend. After several silent moments, our first interaction was over.
At lunch the next day, I found myself leading camp songs for two hundred of my new friends. The campers eagerly participated. I saw the image of the boy from under the tree, sitting alone, staring out the window. I nearly forgot the words to the song I was supposed to be leading. I tried again, with the same questions as before: "Are you okay?" To which he again replied, "Yeah, I'm all right. I just don't really get into this stuff." As I left the cafeteria, I realized this was going to take more time and effort than I had thought - if it was even possible to get through to him at all.
That evening at our nightly staff meeting, I made my concerns about him known. I explained to my fellow staff members my impression of him and asked them to pay special attention and spend time with him.
The days I spend at camp fly by faster than any others I have known. In the final night of camp, I was holding the "last dance." The students were doing all they could to savor every last moment with their new "best friends" - friends they would probably never see again.
As I watched the campers share their parting moments, I suddenly saw what would be one of the most vivid memories of my life. The boy from under the tree, who had stared blankly out the kitchen window, was now a wonderful dancer. He owned the dance floor as he and two girls proceeded to cut a rug. He shared meaningful, intimate time with people at whom he couldn't even look just days earlier. I couldn't believe it was the same person.
In October of my sophomore year, I received a late-night phone call. A soft-spoken, unfamiliar voice asked politely, "Is Kevin there?"
"You're talking to him. Who's this?"
"This is Tom Johnson's mom. Do you remember Tommy from camp?"
The boy under the tree. How could I not remember?
"Yes, I do," I said. "He's a very nice young man. How is he?"
An long pause followed, then Mrs. Johnson said, "My Tommy was walking home from school this week when he was hit by a car and killed." I was really shocked, and I offered my condolences.
"I just wanted to call you," she said, "because Tommy mentioned you so many times. I wanted you to know that he went back to school this fall with confidence. He made new friends. His grades went up. And he even went out on a few dates. I just wanted to thank you for making a difference for Tom. The last few months were the best few months of his life."
In that instant, I realized how easy it is to give a bit of yourself every day. You may never know how much each gesture may mean to someone else. I tell this story as often as I can, and when I do, I urge others to look out for their own "boy under the tree."
- David Coleman and Kevin Randall
Do all the good you can, to all the people you can, in all the ways you can, as often as you can.
- Charles Spurgcon