Digging Deeper: No Candy, No Exceptions

There were a few rules to make summers more… wild at Falling Creek Camp. Clearly, there was a ban on any technology, and I was mostly fine with that. My Sony Walkman and Game Boy, as essential as they were, could live back home for the 27 days we spent in the woods. Most phones had cords back then, and you weren’t calling home. You could spend the silent period writing to your parents, but few letters were written. The rooms were broom-swept nightly—the floors bare and spotless, nothing out of place, nothing allowed to linger.

But the kicker was always candy. No candy, no exceptions.

I knew kids who had spent June building false bottoms in their trunks. At least the adults could tell they’d been paying attention in woodworking. Cary’s older brother and my cousin Hamilton even stripped the laces from a football to fill it with candy. He didn’t foresee the counselor asking for a pass on our arrival day. Hesitantly, Hamilton threw a perfect spiral across the cabin—when a Now and Later spun out as well. It slid to rest at the feet of Aunt Allison, who grew to a shade of red that matched the cherry flavor.

Never doubt the ingenuity of young boys with a sugar addiction.

We were in our favorite period—skipping. My trunk sat in the middle of the cabin, surrounded by Frank, Hamilton, and two boys whose names I no longer recall. I do remember what was on the trunk: Starburst, Warheads, Jolly Ranchers, Skittles, and Airheads. I reached for a playing card from a pile. As I shuffled, I looked up—and everyone’s eyes were as wide as the pile in the middle of the trunk.

Twigs snapping, leaves crunching, and the heavy, methodical pace of someone—or something—was approaching. Hamilton and the other two dove underneath the bunk beds, ditching their cards, as Frank and I froze in the middle of the room. The screen door slammed open.

Our counselor had a clean buzz cut, and the sleeves of his T-shirt stayed rolled whether he meant them to or not. He spoke little, but his stories always started with where he was sent, not why. He gazed around the room as cards fell to the floor. I don’t think Frank or I actually breathed as he scanned the room, perhaps acting on animal instincts, hoping for camouflage.

He knelt beside the trunk of candy and locked eyes with me. And without even looking, he reached under the bunk bed and grabbed Hamilton, flailing like a freshly caught fish.

I once heard a definition of “love” that says to love someone is to “will the good for them.” If that’s the definition, it raises a question: how can you love God? God isn’t just Himself good—God literally is the standard for what is good. How do you will the good for… the good?

No matter how much we told the counselors we appreciated them, even loved them, disobedient actions seemed to stick out more than mere words, didn’t they? It seems to me the primary way we show love toward God is by aligning our will with His, similar to what John said in his epistle: to “keep His commandments.”

Jesus took aligning His will with God’s will so seriously that He even conditioned His request not to go to the cross with, “Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done.”

Rules about candy and technology may feel arbitrary—probably good ideas for young kids. But suppose the rules were created by a perfect, infallible being? What if every possible consequence of those rules could be known—and not only known, but known to lead to good? Whether that good was for the person the rule was prescribed to, another, or even the rule-giver Himself. Adherence would be wise, good, and loving.

Today, know that God loves you. And following what He commands is how you can say, “I love you,” back.