Camping

We went camping.

You gotta admit, Jim Gaffigan has got a point or nine.

I'm surprised we can still get people to camp.  "Hey, wanna burn a couple of vacation days sleeping on the ground outside?...You'll wake up freezing covered in a rash!"  All right, I'll go.  

My wife always brings up, "Camping's a tradition in my family."  Hey, it was a tradition in everyone's family until we came up with the HOUSE.

...You know who's a happy camper?  The guy leaving the campsite.  He's the happiest camper.  He gets to take a shower.

... It's not just serial killers; there's bears out there...Why are we even camping where there's wild animals?  That wouldn't be a selling point for anything else.  "Oh, it's a beautiful golf course.  Plus, around the ninth hole there's a pack of wolves!"

 That doesn't even address my other fears of ticks, burns, and children eating things they found on the ground.

It's not that I dislike camping.  I have no problem skipping a shower or two, getting twigs in my hair, unplugging, etc.


It's more the magnifying effect it has on my maternal anxieties.

Some months ago our pastor preached on Philippians 4:6:  "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer..."  In the sermon, he named three "species of anxiety":


(1) An honorable burden to be carried, as Paul's anxiety for the infant churches, or a mother's anxiety to keep her children unpoisoned;


(2) A medical condition for which to seek proper treatment (been there, doing that); and


(3) A sin of which to repent.

Which species of anxiety does camping trigger in me?


The same number as the insect and arachnid species that commune with us while we eat our camp breakfast.


All of them.