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1.  First, let’s decide the severity for urinary incontinence: - Moderate    2.  Next determine the primary type of urinary incontinence: -  Squirts, small bladder releases  3  Very good!  How much awareness do you want to have?   - Vague awareness.    4.  What about nights?  - Heavy wetting with infrequent pee dreams.   5.  Do you want your incontinence to be reversible or permanent? - Permanent    6. Do you wish to have bowel incontinence as well?  - No bowel incontinence    7. Finally, would you like to add toilet confusion, thus impossible to use a toilet?  - No

At Lick Run Bible Camp, Sally wakes to cold mountain air, quiet vulnerability, and the strange comfort of a secret well managed. With Renée’s discreet “diaper espionage” working better than expected, Sally begins the day feeling safer than she feared—and far less invisible than she imagined. But camp has more surprises waiting: a sharp morning devotional, an old hymn that breaks her open, Pastor Ian’s powerful introduction to Ruth and grace, and an accidental promotion to volleyball coach. Between hidden weakness, honest worship, laughter over breakfast, and a court full of eager girls, Sally discovers that Bible camp may exercise both body and soul in ways she never saw coming.   Chapter 181 – Amazing Grace Sally could feel the chill first. Not sharp, not unpleasant—just that soft mountain cold that slipped quietly into the cabin sometime before dawn, reminding everyone that West Virginia was not Miami and certainly not Texas. Half-asleep, she instinctively pulled the sleeping bag higher around her shoulders and curled tighter into herself, chasing warmth like a cat finding the best patch of sunlight. Better. For a moment she floated there in that strange, delicious place between sleep and waking, warm inside the cocoon of fabric, aware only of the silence and the comfort. Then her brain caught up. This wasn’t her bed. This wasn’t even a normal bed. This was a bunk bed. Top bunk. Camp. Lick Run Bible Camp. West Virginia. Right. She blinked slowly into the dimness, staring at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling only a few feet above her face. Beside her, Monica was still asleep with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once feared missing breakfast. No movement. No sign of life. Probably legally dead until coffee. Sally smiled faintly. Then she felt it. The warm, slightly heavy press beneath her pajamas. Of course. Her diaper. Wet. Not bad. Not awful. Just… Cozy. Okay. Fine. That was what diapers were for. That was the whole point. It was still peaceful, somehow. Quiet enough that nothing felt urgent. Too early for anyone else to care. Too early for the world to be watching. She turned her wrist and pressed the little light on her Casio. 5:07 a.m. Far too early for civilization. She could sleep a little more. And she did. Not deeply, not really, but enough to drift again, warm and tucked away while the woods outside slowly shifted toward morning. When she blinked awake the second time, the light had changed. Not bright. West Virginia didn’t do bright mornings like Miami did. It offered a pale gray softness through the cabin windows, the kind of daylight that belonged to forests and fog and old wooden buildings. She checked again. Just past six. The cabin was still quiet. A few soft breathing sounds. Someone turning over. The occasional creak of old wood settling. This was the window. If she wanted to move quietly, privately, and return looking like a functioning human being, now was the time. Sally carefully wiggled herself free from the sleeping bag, moving slowly so the mattress wouldn’t betray her with unnecessary drama. She had to admit it—the sleeping bag was excellent. Cozy. Warm. Like sleeping inside a private little fortress. Adding to her own comfort and security – wrapped around her waist. She appreciated that. Especially now. The air was cool against her skin, but she was grateful for the extra layer she had thrown on last night. The hoodie helped. Comfortable. Safe. Not cold. She sat up carefully and made sure her loose pajama pants were falling exactly where they should, covering the obvious bulk discreetly. Good enough. She shifted slightly, hitched the now slightly sagging diaper higher beneath the fabric, and prepared for the delicate military operation known as Getting Down From A Top Bunk Without Dying. Very slowly, she climbed down the wooden frame, careful with every step, trying not to disturb Taylor asleep on the lower bunk. Taylor was one of those girls who somehow looked poetic while unconscious. Golden curls across the pillow. Peaceful face. Soft breathing. Like a painting titled Innocence Before Breakfast. Sally paused for a second and smiled. Very dramatic, she thought. Very unfair. Meanwhile, I look like a raccoon with responsibilities. She slipped her slippers on and adjusted her hoodie, hands disappearing into the front pocket like armor. The diaper gave the faintest crinkle beneath her pajamas when she moved. She froze instinctively. Nothing. No one stirred. Good. She walked softly, careful and practiced, muffling the sound as best she could, moving toward the bathroom with the quiet stealth of someone smuggling state secrets. The cabin floor creaked once. She glared at it. Traitor. Finally, she slipped into the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind her. Peace. Blessed peace. She moved quickly to one of the stalls and locked herself inside. Safe. Private. Alone. She leaned back against the stall door for just a second and exhaled. Okay. New day. Handle it. Move on. That was all. And somehow, in that quiet little bathroom stall in the middle of a camp in West Virginia, Sally felt strangely grown up. -- “Smart cookie,” came Rebecca’s voice softly from the doorway. Sally looked up from the sink, hands still damp, face freshly washed, and caught sight of the counselor stepping into the bathroom with the kind of calm authority only women who had survived years of teenage camp cabins seemed to possess. The fluorescent light made everything feel too honest this early in the morning. Sally smiled shyly and reached for her towel. “Morning. Just a morning person.” Rebecca gave her a knowing look in the mirror as she walked past. “Mmhm. That, or you’re smarter than the rest of them.” She reached one of the cubicle doors and paused. “Sleep well?” A beat. “I hope it wasn’t too cold for you.” Sally shook her head, dabbing her face dry. “No, it was good. Slept like a baby.” And woke up like one, she thought privately, with the kind of irony only God was allowed to witness. Rebecca smiled. “Good. Half an hour until the bell.” She pointed toward the stalls like a woman issuing battlefield instructions. “Use your time wisely.” Then she disappeared into one of the cubicles with the serene dignity of a woman who feared nothing, including camp plumbing. Sally let out a slow breath and turned back to her own little operation. Her toiletries bag slid neatly into the small bathroom cabinet nook she had quietly claimed the night before. She checked her hoodie pocket. Still there. The tightly wrapped wet diaper sat folded and secured inside its discreet hygiene bag, tied carefully into a neat little knot. It looked innocent enough. Hopefully. The arrangement with Renée had been simple and genius. Sally would slip the bag into her sleeping bag during the day, hidden beneath the folds, and Renée would quietly exchange it for a fresh diaper. Discreet. Practical. No awkward garbage discoveries. No horrified girls finding evidence in a bathroom bin and accidentally creating a cabin-wide mystery investigation. No thank you. She appreciated competence. She appreciated Renée. Very much. When Sally slipped back into the cabin, morning was beginning to happen. Not fully awake. But stirring. A few girls shifting under blankets. Someone groaning dramatically at the existence of sunrise. Someone else already sitting cross-legged on a lower bunk braiding her own hair with suspicious determination. Sally moved quietly, mission-focused. She slid the small bag exactly where it needed to go, tucked discreetly into the folds of her sleeping bag where no one would notice. Perfect. Stealth successful. She could have worked for the CIA. Then she moved to her suitcase and began getting dressed by her bunk. Jeans first. Clean socks. A simple sports sweater. Comfortable, modest, easy. Camp clothes. Nothing expensive. Nothing flashy. Exactly right. As she was pulling on her jeans, Taylor stirred on the lower bunk and sat up slowly, still halfway in dreams. Golden curls everywhere. Sleepy eyes. The kind of person who somehow looked photogenic while blinking. “Hey…” she murmured. A pause while her brain connected names. “Sally, right?” Sally smiled, stepping into her jeans. “Yeah. You’re Taylor.” Taylor rubbed one eye. “Didn’t freeze to death?” There was genuine concern there. Sally laughed softly. “Nope. False alarm.” She tugged her sweater down. “I’m actually from Connecticut, so cold isn’t exactly the end of the world for me.” Taylor blinked. “Oh.” Then, with sleepy accusation: “You’ve got a lot of drama for someone with a Florida postal code.” That made Sally grin. “Yeah. A lot of suffering. You know, soaking up the sun by the pool in February…” She said it before thinking. Taylor sat up straighter immediately. “Really?” Her eyes widened. “Wow. That must be so cool.” Sally nodded, a little more modestly now. “It is.” She shrugged. “No shoveling snow. Mostly just hosing down the backyard.” Taylor nodded like this was deeply relatable. “Chores.” “Exactly.” Sally smirked and lowered her voice, affecting her father’s tone with surprising accuracy. “My allowance is subject to responsibilities being carried out.” Taylor stared. Then burst into laughter. “Oh my gosh, you sound exactly like someone’s father.” Sally grinned wider. “I’ve had years of practice.” Taylor pointed at her. “I saw you guys saying goodbye yesterday. That was your dad, right?” Sally beamed automatically. No hesitation. “Yeah. That was him.” Taylor nodded with sleepy seriousness. “Elegant.” That was somehow the perfect word. Not rich. Not intimidating. Elegant. Sally liked that. “Yeah,” she said softly. “He is.” Taylor finally swung her legs out of bed and stood, stretching dramatically. “Well. I should probably beat the bathroom line before civilization collapses.” She shuffled off in slippers, mumbling something about toothpaste and injustice. Sally smiled to herself and climbed carefully back onto her top bunk. She was ready. Dressed. Hair combed. Face fresh. Presentable. Safe. And Monica— Monica was still asleep like a Victorian heroine abandoned by society. Absolutely motionless. Blanket tangled. One arm dramatically over her face. Zero intention of participating in morning. Sally sat cross-legged beside her and leaned over. “Wakeeee.” A gentle poke. Nothing. Then one eye opened. Monica looked up at a suspiciously bright and fully functional Sally hovering over her like a cheerful haunting. She squinted. Surveyed. Judged. “Rude,” Monica muttered. Then turned over dramatically. Sally smiled. No mercy. She poked her again, this time directly in the ribs. Monica flinched. “The bell hasn’t even rung yet,” she complained into her pillow. And right on cue— CLANG! A deafening, unapologetic metallic bell exploded through the cabin. Rebecca stood in the doorway like the angel of structured suffering, ringing an old-fashioned handbell with absolute satisfaction. “Come on, gang!” she called. More groans. Pillows thrown. One girl whispered, “This is persecution.” Rebecca rang it again. “We’ve got cabin devotionals before breakfast!” Monica sat up slowly, hair wild, soul departing. She looked at Sally. “This is your fault.” Sally smiled sweetly. “Good morning, child of God.” -- Rebecca was already outside when the girls filtered out of the cabin, carrying the strange mix of sleepiness and obligation that belonged to early camp mornings. She sat on one of the wooden benches fixed against the cabin wall, coffee mug in hand, Bible resting on her knee like an old friend. The early mountain air was cool and clean, carrying the smell of wet grass and trees and that quiet silence only existed before breakfast and teenage chaos. A few girls had already gathered around her, some wrapped in hoodies, some still half asleep, all clutching Bibles with varying degrees of spiritual enthusiasm. Taylor sat cross-legged on the grass, looking like she had been emotionally betrayed by sunrise. Karen was somehow already fully awake, which Sally distrusted. Sally took her place on the bench, thumbing absentmindedly through her Bible, curious about how this worked. Cabin devotionals felt smaller than assembly, more intimate somehow. Less performance. More real. She liked that. Finally, Monica appeared, dragging herself into the world like someone being summoned against her will. She dropped onto the bench beside Sally with a sigh so dramatic it deserved its own hymn. She elbowed Sally lightly. “I don’t know how you do it,” she mumbled. Sally smiled and shrugged. “Morning person.” Monica stared ahead, unimpressed. “Unsettling trait.” Before Sally could defend herself, Rebecca cleared her throat softly. The small circle settled. Birds. Wind. Girls trying to become human. Morning. “Good morning, girls.” A scattered chorus answered. Some more alive than others. Rebecca smiled. “No need to open your Bibles yet. Just let me read something first and throw some thoughts at you before breakfast saves your souls.” That got a small laugh. She lifted her Bible. “Here’s one interesting text, from Isaiah 5:11.” She read clearly:   “Woe to those who rise early in the morning…”   Sally’s head snapped up. Immediately. Beside her, Monica whispered a reverent: “Amen.” Taylor snorted. Karen covered a smile. There were a few muffled chuckles, but everyone also knew Rebecca well enough to understand there was always a trap hidden somewhere in these moments. Sally stared. No. Absolutely not. She raised a hand slightly, unable to help herself. “Wait.” She leaned forward. “It really says that?” Rebecca looked at her over the edge of the Bible, a thin smile already forming. She nodded. “It says exactly that. I promise.” Sally frowned in open disbelief. “Impossible. There has to be something else.” Taylor muttered from the grass, “This is the most suspicious verse I’ve ever heard.” Rebecca closed the Bible gently. “Comments, girls?” Most of them suddenly found the ground fascinating. Taylor kicked at a loose stone. “It doesn’t sound… biblical,” she offered. “Like something someone would quote to avoid chores.” Rebecca nodded solemnly. “Fair observation.” Then she turned. “Monica?” Monica folded her arms. “I agree with the message in spirit.” A beat. “But yes, there is definitely something else you are not saying.” Rebecca smiled. Then she looked directly at Sally. “You have good instincts.” She let that settle. “And all of you know better than to simply take my word for it.” She tapped the Bible lightly. “You question. You go to the source. You ask: what is it actually saying?” She opened it again. “What is the prophet talking about? What is God’s message?” She read the full verse this time.   “Woe to those who rise early in the morning, that they may run after strong drink, who tarry late into the evening as wine inflames them.”   The group quieted. Ah. There it was. Sally leaned back slightly. “That makes more sense.” Monica looked personally disappointed. “I was really hoping Scripture officially condemned mornings.” Rebecca laughed softly. “Sorry to ruin your theology.” She rested her elbows on her knees. “The problem isn’t waking up early. Scripture praises that all the time. Prayer. Work. Responsibility. Seeking God.” She looked around the circle. “The problem is what they rise early for.” She pointed lightly with her Bible. “These people wake up early not to seek the Lord. Not to serve. Not to fulfill responsibilities.” A pause. “They wake up early to chase pleasure. Escape. Strong drink. Their first thought of the day is not God—but indulgence.” The girls listened more carefully now. Even Monica. Rebecca continued. “That reveals something deeper. Their hearts are ruled by appetite.” She let the silence hold for a moment. “Your first pursuit reveals your master.” That landed. “What pulls your heart first in the morning?” She looked at each of them. “For them, it was wine.” A beat. “For us? Maybe not wine.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s attention. Money. Success. Distraction. Entertainment. Anxiety. Control.” Sally felt that one. Control. Rebecca nodded slowly. “The question is not just ‘what do I do?’” She tapped the page. “It’s ‘what do I run to?’” Her voice softened. “Jesus said, ‘Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’” Nobody spoke. Taylor was no longer kicking rocks. Rebecca smiled faintly. “And here’s the uncomfortable part.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Sin is often organized.” That got attention. “They rise early for it.” She spread a hand. “This isn’t weakness in a random moment. This is planned devotion. Scheduled rebellion.” Monica gave a low whistle. “Ouch.” Rebecca nodded. “Yes. Ouch.” She pointed toward the dining hall in the distance. “People think sin is usually accidental. Sometimes it is. But often?” She shook her head. “It’s commitment. Discipline. Loyalty.” A small smile. “Just to the wrong altar.” That one sat heavy. Sally stared down at her Bible. Rebecca’s voice gentled again. “A wasted life can look very busy.” She looked around. “You can be active. Productive. Successful. Full of plans.” A pause. “And still be far from God.” The woods around them felt quieter somehow. “Martha was busy,” Rebecca said softly. “Mary chose the better portion.” Then she closed the Bible. “And notice the word Isaiah uses.” She looked up. “Woe.” Not anger. Not shouting. Warning. Loving warning before destruction.” Her eyes softened. “God is not indifferent to the direction of your soul.” That sat deeper than the rest. Then she asked the question plainly. “So.” She folded her hands. “What do you rise early for?” No one answered. Not because they had nothing to say. Because everyone did. “To seek God?” “To carry burdens alone?” “To chase success?” “To feed the flesh?” Sally swallowed quietly. Rebecca smiled, softer now. “Psalm 63 says it better.” She quoted from memory.   ‘O God, You are my God; earnestly I seek You…’”   She nodded. “The problem in Isaiah wasn’t early rising.” A small smile. “It was early wandering.” Even Monica sat quietly for that one. Rebecca stood, brushing her jeans off. “The blessed person rises early for the Lord.” She picked up her coffee mug. “The warned person rises early for idols.” And just as the words settled— CLANG! The breakfast bell rang across camp like divine intervention. Immediate resurrection. Taylor stood up first. “Praise God.” Monica followed. “Now that is a devotional I understand.” Laughter broke the seriousness, and the girls began gathering themselves, Bibles tucked under arms, hoodies adjusted, hunger suddenly the most theological issue of the morning. Sally stood too, thoughtful. Monica bumped her shoulder. “So.” She smirked. “Still a morning person?” Sally smiled. “Depends.” She looked toward the dining hall. “What’s for breakfast?” -- Sally had expected hotel food. Not because she was spoiled—well, maybe a little—but because camps had a reputation. Somewhere between school cafeteria and mild emotional punishment. She had prepared herself for rubber eggs, suspicious sausage, and toast with the texture of drywall. Instead, breakfast smelled wonderful. Warm. Real. Butter. Coffee. Bacon. And something baked that suggested civilization had not completely collapsed in West Virginia. She stood in the dining hall line with her tray in hand, still slightly suspicious, staring at the buffet like it might be lying to her. Beside her, Charlie appeared with the easy timing of someone who had done camp mornings here before. “It is hotel food,” he said gravely, reaching for a serving spoon, “made with love.” He gave her a sideways look. “Taste it. It’s good.” He spooned scrambled eggs onto his plate with the confidence of a veteran, added bacon, toast, and what looked like a deeply committed relationship with breakfast. Sally followed more cautiously. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Fruit, because her mother would somehow sense if she didn’t. And coffee. Because she respected herself. They drifted naturally together toward the quieter end of one of the long tables and sat side by side while the rest of camp formed a slow-moving breakfast migration behind them. It was peaceful for a moment. Just plates. Coffee. Morning light through the big windows. People waking up slowly. Charlie took a bite of eggs and looked over. “Sleep well?” Sally nodded, taking a sip of coffee first like an adult making a formal statement. “Like a baby.” She looked sideways at him. “You?” Charlie smiled into his fork. “Like a baby.” A pause. Then, with complete calm: “Woke up like one too.” Sally froze. Actually froze. Fork halfway to her mouth. Her face went red so fast it should have required medical supervision. “Oh.” Charlie gave a small helpless shrug. “Yeah.” He said it so simply. No drama. No embarrassment. Just truth. Sally looked down at her plate like the scrambled eggs might offer emotional support. After a second, she muttered quietly, “Me too.” For a moment, neither of them said anything. Not awkward. Just honest. Charlie glanced around the dining hall. “They’re good people,” he said softly. “They’re not going to laugh at you for that.” Sally tilted her head slightly. She understood what he meant, but something else caught her attention. “They know you…” She trailed off. Charlie pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Yep. Some do.” A small smile. “They don’t mind.” He cut a piece of toast. “Well—they tease. But mostly because I let them.” That made her laugh. “The nurse, Renée, organized some sort of subterfuge so I can be as stealthy as possible about it.” She shook her head with reluctant admiration. “Honestly, it’s impressive. Very professional. Very… diaper espionage.” “Secrets?” came Monica’s voice as she dropped into the chair across from them like an investigative journalist arriving at a scandal. She pointed a fork at Sally. “Do tell.” Sally immediately shoved bacon into her mouth like that would protect her. She shook her head. “It’s secret.” Monica narrowed her eyes. Suspicious. Then she looked at Charlie. Charlie, traitor that he was, simply smiled with complete innocence. “It is,” he said. He nodded seriously. “It is really secret.” Monica leaned back. “Oh, now I’m definitely finding out.” “Never,” Sally said through toast. “A challenge,” Monica replied. The table slowly filled around them. More campers arrived carrying trays and varying levels of consciousness. Some looked alive. Some looked like they were attending breakfast against medical advice. Conversation shifted naturally from sleep deprivation to the far more important topic of the day’s activities. Someone down the table announced dramatically: “I want to test the new ping-pong table.” Another voice followed. “What about volleyball? The court looks amazing now.” A younger girl—small, dark-haired, and carrying the nervous energy of someone who lived in permanent enthusiasm—spoke up. “I almost feel like playing.” She made a face. “Even if the ball still terrifies me.” That got a laugh. Sally looked up from her coffee. “I used to play volleyball.” A few heads turned. She shrugged modestly. “School team. Before.” A beat. “Now I homeschool, so I haven’t played in a while. But honestly? I wouldn’t mind playing.” The younger girl lit up instantly like someone had announced free puppies. “You do?!” She sat up straighter. “Perfect. Sally will be our coach!” Sally nearly inhaled coffee. “I—” Too late. It had been declared. “My name’s Natalie,” the girl announced proudly. “Emma,” said another girl from farther down the table, raising her hand slightly like this was formal enrollment. “I want to play too.” “Grace,” another added with a wave. “I’ll mostly be a nuisance, but if you need filler, I volunteer as tribute.” More laughter. And suddenly, somehow, an entire informal volleyball team was being assembled around her without her consent. Girls were pledging participation. Someone was already discussing teams. Natalie looked like Sally had personally saved camp athletics. Sally turned slowly to Charlie with the expression of someone requesting legal counsel. “I’ve never coached,” she whispered. Charlie just laughed. Actually laughed. “Wait until Katrina hears this.” He shook his head. “You. A volleyball coach.” Sally glared. “Help me.” He looked at the suddenly expectant little breakfast team and raised both hands in surrender. “I’ll watch,” he offered. Very helpful. Monica pointed dramatically. “Coward.” “Strategist,” Charlie corrected. Natalie clapped once like a general finalizing battle plans. “Perfect. Volleyball after morning assembly.” She pointed at Sally. “Coach.” Sally sat back in her chair, fork in hand, staring into the middle distance. Twenty-four hours ago she had arrived at camp. Now she apparently led sports ministries. She took a bite of bacon. “Well,” she said quietly, “this is how cults begin.” -- Assembly had begun with noise, exactly as it should. Not chaos—organized awakening. The kind of music that politely refused to let teenagers remain emotionally asleep. The modern worship band had taken over the small stage at the front of the assembly hall, and the room was already warmer with movement, conversation, and the slow migration of people finding their usual seats. Renée, to Sally’s great delight, sat proudly behind the drum set with the expression of a woman who had waited all week for permission to be loud for Jesus. She caught Sally looking and pointed a drumstick at her like a warning. Sally grinned and gave her a discreet salute. Even Charlie was up there now, standing slightly off to the side with an acoustic guitar, sleeves rolled, looking far too comfortable for someone who had spent breakfast admitting mutual diaper diplomacy. He caught her eye once, smiled easily, and returned to tuning. Normal. Safe. Good. Sally stood between Monica and Taylor as the opening songs rolled through the room, clapping when everyone clapped, following lyrics on the wall, letting herself settle into the strange comfort of belonging somewhere she had only arrived at yesterday. That still amazed her. She was new. New to this. New to faith. New to camp. New to all of it. And yet somehow she didn’t feel like an outsider standing at the window. She felt… received. Not examined. Not tolerated. Welcomed. It filled something in her she had not realized was so empty. Ian stepped forward after the final upbeat chorus, smiling like a man who knew exactly how to manage a room full of teenagers and probably had the scars to prove it. “Alright,” he said, clapping once. “Let’s rescue one of the old hymns.” A few dramatic groans. Monica whispered, “Here comes the persecution.” Ian pointed toward the back. “I heard that.” Laughter. He smiled wider. “This one needs no lyrics…” A pause. “But just in case, because some of you are spiritually undereducated…” The words appeared on the wall. And immediately, almost instinctively, the whole room stood. No one had to say it. They just did. Something about reverence. Something inherited. Something known. Sally stood too, watching the screen. The piano-like keyboard began softly. Simple. Steady. Ancient.   On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, The emblem of suffering and shame; And I love that old cross where the dearest and best For a world of lost sinners was slain.   Sally blinked. The words were beautiful. Not polished. Not modern. Not trying to impress anyone. Just truth. Heavy truth. Then came the chorus, and the room swelled.   So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, Till my trophies at last I lay down; I will cling to the old rugged cross, And exchange it someday for a crown.   She wasn’t even singing. Not really. She was listening. And somehow that felt louder. The words moved through her like something remembered rather than learned. Something old. Something that had always been waiting.   In that old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine, A wondrous beauty I see, For ’twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died, To pardon and sanctify me.   Ancient words. Ancient truth. And suddenly Sally felt it—that sharp crack inside where grace enters. She folded slightly inward, crossing her arms as if she were cold, but she wasn’t cold at all. She was too full. She felt a hand on her arm. A squeeze. She blinked and realized tears were already running down her face. Quietly. Without permission. Monica leaned closer. “You okay?” Sally nodded, wiping quickly at her face, embarrassed and not embarrassed at all. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. Monica blinked. “You didn’t know this one?” Sally shook her head. Apparently she still had a great deal to learn. Monica’s expression softened completely. Without another word, she slid her arm around Sally’s shoulders and stood with her through the final chorus, both of them singing now—Monica loudly, Sally quietly, but there. It should have felt cheesy. Like a movie. Spiritual awakening in Cabin Three. But it didn’t. It felt honest. Cracks showing. Places that needed filling. Places already being filled. It felt like God meeting her in a hymn older than everyone in the room. When the music finally softened and everyone sat, a few girls turned to Sally instinctively. Taylor patted her arm. Karen gave her a knowing nod. Grace whispered, “First Old Rugged Cross casualty of the week.” Even that made Sally laugh through the tears. Ian had noticed. Of course he had. He stepped forward again, quieter now. The room settled. “This camp,” he said, “is a discipleship camp.” His voice changed—not louder, but deeper somehow. “It is not an ongoing program. It is not a social club. It is not summer entertainment with Bible verses attached.” That got a few smiles. “We hope it gets you started in something formal. Serious. Permanent.” He tapped the Bible in his hand. “The blueprint of what drives you.” A pause. “In essence—Christ.” Silence. Everyone was listening now. “Some of you,” he continued, walking slowly across the front, “feel it is normal to be here because you come from a background of faith.” He gestured lightly. “Your parents believe. You believe. Church feels natural. Baptism was expected. Faith feels like home.” He nodded. “That’s a gift.” Then he slowed. “But for others…” His eyes found Sally directly. And stayed there. “It may feel strange.” She sat very still. “You may not feel like you belong here.” No one moved. “But faith,” Ian said, “is not about belonging.” A pause. “It is about not deserving.” That landed like thunder. “About being the outsider.” “The outcast.” “The one who should not be here.” He let the silence do the work. “So whatever brought you here…” His voice gentled. “Welcome.” Sally swallowed hard. Then Ian straightened slightly, energy shifting. “Okay.” A smile returned. “Let’s talk about our study theme.” He paced once. “First—an outsider.” “She wasn’t a Jew.” “She didn’t belong.” “She left everything because of faith.” “And what she received in return was incomparable blessing.” Before she could stop herself, Sally whispered, “Ruth.” Monica looked sideways. At the exact same moment, Ian smiled. “Ruth.” A few heads turned. He nodded toward the room. “We will be studying the book of Ruth.” He lifted one finger. “But remember who Ruth was.” He looked around. “Do you know who Ruth’s great-grandson was?” Silence. Teenagers calculating breakfast. Sally remained silent now, but there was a thin smile at the corner of her mouth. She knew. Ian grinned. “King David.” That got attention. “Yes.” He nodded. “King David was Ruth’s great-grandson.” He spread his hands. “So while we study Ruth’s story—this outsider welcomed by grace—we will also study David.” A beat. “And we will go deep.” He lifted an eyebrow. “The good.” “The bad.” “The ugly.” Some nervous laughter. Ian smiled. “To show that God’s grace is displayed not because of us…” His voice sharpened. “…and how good we happen to be…” He pointed gently toward the room. “But despite us.” A pause. “And mark my words—despite how little we deserve it.” The room was silent again. Not heavy. Clear. Sally sat forward slightly, Bible in her lap, heart still raw from the hymn. She had come to camp thinking she needed to prove something. Maybe she was beginning to understand the opposite. Grace didn’t begin where deserving ended. It began there. -- It almost felt sinful to leave the assembly hall and go straight to volleyball. Sally walked out with her Bible still tucked under her arm and her mind nowhere near sports. Ruth was still sitting heavily in her thoughts. The idea of being an outsider welcomed by grace. Of belonging not because you deserved it, but because God made room for you anyway. She was still turning over Pastor Ian’s words when she nearly walked into a wall of teenage expectation. A dozen girls. Waiting. Looking directly at her. Natalie practically bounced. “Coach.” Sally stopped. Blink. “Oh.” Right. Volleyball. Apparently she had responsibilities now. She looked at the small crowd—girls of every shape and size, some younger, some taller than her, some clearly athletic, others looking like they had volunteered under emotional pressure. Grace stood with her arms folded like she was here for sociology research. Emma looked ready to compete for Olympic qualification. Taylor looked willing but suspicious of cardio. Monica was present purely for entertainment. Sally took a breath and slipped fully into practical mode. “Okay,” she said, clapping once. “If we’re doing sports, we are not doing them like injured pilgrims.” That got attention. “You need to be dressed for action. Real shoes. Comfortable clothes. Hair tied back. If you’re wearing something that would make your mother say ‘you look nice,’ go change.” She pointed at Taylor’s loose blonde curls. “Especially you. That hair is beautiful, but one volleyball and it becomes a legal issue.” Taylor laughed and instinctively grabbed her hair. “Fair.” Sally nodded toward the cabins. “Sportiest thing you have. Leggings, joggers, sneakers, old t-shirts. I do not want casualties before lunch.” Monica raised a hand. “Emotional casualties?” “Guaranteed,” Sally replied. That earned approval. The girls scattered back toward the cabins in a rush of laughter and sneakers on pavement. Sally got pulled along by Monica and Taylor like she was already their appointed captain of civilization. Back in the cabin, chaos resumed. Drawers opening. Girls negotiating over hair ties like black market traders. Someone yelling, “Who stole my hoodie?” Someone else yelling back, “It was community property!” Sally dropped to her suitcase and pulled out her leggings, grateful she had packed practical clothes. She changed quickly, tied on her brand-new trainers, and looked critically at herself. Leggings. Simple sweater. Hair tied back. The trainers were suspiciously bright and very obviously new. She frowned at them. Too cheerful. Hopefully the politely worn sweater balanced the visual offense. Monica, already dressed and somehow looking like an athletic catalog model by accident, leaned against the bunk and inspected her. “Coach approved.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “If you keep calling me that, I’m assigning laps.” Monica smiled. “I respect leadership.” Lies. Complete lies. When they returned to the court, a few girls were already there tossing volleyballs badly and with dangerous confidence. One ball nearly took out Natalie. Sally winced. “Okay!” Her voice carried more naturally than she expected. Everyone stopped. Even she was surprised. Good. Authority, apparently. She pointed at the court. “We warm up first.” Immediate groans. She crossed her arms. “Yes. Stretching. I like your enthusiasm, but I prefer your knees functioning.” That ended debate. She led them through basic stretches—arms, shoulders, legs, ankles. Nothing fancy, just enough to stop camp from turning into a mass casualty event. Emma followed perfectly. Grace stretched like she was negotiating with her own skeleton. Natalie nearly fell over twice. Monica did everything while maintaining eye contact like this was a power struggle. Taylor looked personally offended by lunges. “This,” Taylor muttered, “feels unnecessary.” “This,” Sally replied, “is how you continue walking tomorrow.” Fair point. Once everyone was warm and only moderately resentful, Sally grabbed a volleyball and stepped to center court. “Alright. Basics first.” She bounced the ball once. “Rule number one: do not be afraid of the ball.” Natalie raised a hand immediately. “I am already failing.” Sally smiled. “Most people do.” She held the ball out. “The mistake people make is trying to escape it.” She demonstrated, squaring her shoulders. “You move toward the ball. You don’t flinch. You don’t slap wildly like you’re fighting demons.” Grace slowly lowered her hands. “No promises.” Laughter. Sally crouched slightly. “For a forearm pass—bump—you lock your elbows, hands together, flat platform here.” She tapped her forearms. “Not wrists. Not hands. If you use your hands, you will discover pain and theology at the same time.” Even Monica laughed. Sally tossed the ball gently and bumped it upward. Clean. Simple. “Ohhh,” Natalie said like witnessing science. “Exactly.” She tossed it to Emma. “Try.” Emma did. Almost perfect. Sally pointed. “See? Natural talent. We hate her already.” Emma grinned. Confidence restored. They worked through serving, passing, positioning. Sally kept it practical, calm, never trying to sound like a professional coach—just enough knowledge to keep everyone from injuring themselves and enough confidence that they believed her. “Keep your knees bent.” “Watch the ball, not your own panic.” “Move your feet.” “No, Grace, screaming at it is not a strategy.” “It was helping emotionally.” Across the field, the ping-pong crowd began to thin. Air hockey lost its appeal. Teenage curiosity migrated like wildlife. A few boys appeared first, pretending they were simply passing by. Then a few more. Then enough that it was clearly an audience. Charlie, naturally, was in the middle of it. Hands in pockets. Easy grin. Absolutely not participating. Completely responsible. He stood with a small cluster of boys who had clearly decided spectating was now a sacred duty. One of them called out, “Coach Sally looks terrifying.” Charlie nodded thoughtfully. “She’s changed.” Monica heard it and pointed dramatically across the net. “No commentary unless you’re volunteering to play.” Immediate retreat. Cowards. Charlie just smiled. “We are here purely for moral support.” “Lies,” said Grace. “Mostly lies,” he admitted. Soon enough, sides were picked. Girls took positions. Nervous excitement built. The first real game of camp volleyball was about to begin. Natalie stood beside Sally, bouncing slightly on her feet. “Are we going to win?” Sally looked at the court. At the girls. At the boys pretending not to care. At Charlie trying not to grin. She smiled slowly. “Oh, absolutely,” she said. Then she picked up the whistle she absolutely did not have and declared with full authority: “Ladies. Let’s cause problems.”

I really like the green and the blue ones. The yellow one is an interesting color. 

31. My Masterplan I had an early start in the morning, getting breakfast ready. I could hear the ping of bed springs from Tess’s room as I passed; she was stripping her bed. I wondered if that was just because it was a week since she’d cleaned the sheets, or if her diaper had leaked. Or, perhaps, she’d been even more sleepy than we’d realised. She’d fallen asleep in front of a movie the night before, a family drama about the son of a mafia boss, and I’d had to shake her shoulder until she woke up, just to urge her to go to bed. In the circumstances, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she fell asleep again without properly protecting herself. That would be even better, I supposed. A little more embarrassing, and if she was worried about me finding out, she might give herself the first push towards wearing them during the evening as well. I didn’t call out, just went downstairs. I didn’t say anything after breakfast either, when she dashed up to her room and brought down a bag of laundry. She wanted to hide her accident from me, and I thought that stubborn independent streak was adorable. I should have reprimanded her, given her one little push towards accepting her state as the baby. But I had other objectives today, and I needed her to be cooperative. So I didn’t say anything about her soaked sheets, and waited until the machine was spinning before I spoke again. Luckily for me, Ffrances had to pick up some things from the office. Perhaps the metronome she loved so much, just in case Tess found her courage and requested the hypnosis session that we knew she was building up her courage for. Or maybe something related to her plans for the day, once she revealed the photo I’d given her. Either way, it was convenient because it meant I could talk to Tess, and make sure that she gave the right answers when Ffrances asked the questions we had agreed on. I started by apologising for not trusting her judgement the night before, and for pushing her boyfriend away. I told her that I would do my best to make it up to him. If he wanted to come round again, maybe I could stay out of the way and leave Ffrances as their chaperone. I felt like I was betraying my principles even by saying it. The cryptic hints at his family told me that they were on the wrong side of the law, and the fact that he was going after such a young girl proved to me exactly what kind of pervert he was. But I reminded myself that he wouldn’t get any closer to Tess even if I gave them my seal of approval; he was sure to lose interest the first time she wet her pants in front of him. She wouldn’t listen to my advice, so I needed to make sure that he would realise sooner rather than later that she was too young even for his tastes. Then we went through to the lounge, with coffee mugs in hand, so that I could explain what I really wanted. I told her quickly enough that Ffrances had been tidying up the box room, and that there were a lot of old things in there from my family. And I revealed that I knew she had taken the photograph. It had been taped on the outside of the box, after all. Ffrances loved me, and she would have to find it funny to see some of my childhood memories. I just knew that she was going to ask if I wanted to dress up in the clothes on top of that box, and try to relive a moment of my youth. I said Ffrances would find it funny, and I was pretty sure that was true. But then I also said that I really wanted to try that, thinking that imagining myself as a child would be a break from all my responsibilities. That wasn’t true, but it gave me a chance to prime Tess, talking about a bunch of different reasons that might lie behind her desire to be a little. If I was the one saying those things, she would surely find it easier to admit the same feelings to me. But still she didn’t say anything, just suggested I was lucky to have a girlfriend who would indulge my fantasies like that. That was my cue to admit the big problem. I said that I was scared to admit to Ffrances that I wanted those things. I said that I couldn’t bring myself to say it; which I knew Tess would sympathise with. Especially when the things she’d not confessed to me this morning would still be weighing on her mind. And I asked her to be the one who said it. I spun it like a narrative, making everything seem reasonable. Being able to pretend I was a kid again would let me have more fun, and not worry so much about what people thought. But worrying what my girlfriend thought was stopping me getting there. So if Tess were to look at the photo and say she wished she could be that age again, maybe Ffrances would think of ways she could achieve that. And if one of them asked me to do the same, there would be no shame in playing along with the kid’s ideas. I could get what I really wanted, without my own pride holding me back. I told Tess she didn’t need to be embarrassed either. Of course she didn’t; it would be something she was doing for me. Pretending she was interested, just until I could get what I wanted. She could play along when it was for someone else’s benefit, couldn’t she? Just like taking on a role in the school play, her character’s confession wouldn’t reflect on her personally. Of course, I knew that once she was getting into her little headspace, it would be harder to deny that it was really what she wanted. Especially on the off chance I could convince Ffrances that Tess had agreed to using hypnosis to enhance the fantasy. But I pitched it to Tess just as a game, something she could play along with for my sake and then never think about again. She was reluctant. Of course she was. But I promised that I would do anything she wanted if she just let me have this one thing. Assuming that Ffrances really was thinking of what I thought she was thinking – which gave me a big smile. Of course I knew what Ffrances was going to suggest, because I’d asked  her to propose it. But Tess didn’t need to know that now, and it only made it easier to coach her for the upcoming conversation. When she gave a reluctant nod and said she’d think about it, I was overjoyed. “Thank you,” I whispered, and the tears in my eyes were real. This was something I had dreamed of for so long, and my dreams were finally coming true. Tess must have been able to tell just how much this meant to me, even if she didn’t quite see the same perspective I had on the life ahead of her. Finally, I knew that everything was going perfectly. She would be my baby before long, and the path that led there was a carefully prepared slippery slope, for which I had carefully planned every step along the way.