Editor’s Note: The following reflection first appeared in the January-March issue of Good Faith Magazine, our print publication that is available as a free resource for all Good Faith Advocates.
I was a youth minister during the heyday of van trips. During that era, vans were more than transportation. They were part of the experience. For every reunion gathering, there is at least one story about a van breaking down, a song on the FM radio that defined the trip, or a romance that came into full bloom while sitting side-by-side. It was before cellphones, and even those who brought a personal cassette player were teased into joining the group, rather than isolating themselves. The later vans had their own cassette players, and there was always that person who put together a mixed tape just for that trip.
Traditions were born. There were places “we always stopped,” memories of seeing things together for the first time, and conversations that stuck with you for years. However, like so many youth ministry practices that have changed over the years due to safety concerns and earbuds, many of the stories live on.
We had 25 signed up for the beach trip, and the church had only had one van that could fit 12 with luggage. The church secretary graciously offered her van because we were not one of those churches that could afford to rent a nice, air-conditioned bus with a driver. I still can’t imagine what that would be like.
So after church on Father’s Day, 1988, we had a group prayer, parents hugged their teenagers, and we set off to Myrtle Beach for intense Bible study and sunbathing. (You cannot make this up.) This was long before cellphones, and we did not have walkie-talkies (which is a false sense of security, because more than three miles of separation means you cannot reach each other anyway). A CB radio would have been appropriate for our mountain culture, but alas, van-to-van communication was not available.
So two hours into the trip, the secretary’s van blew its engine. The telltale poof of white smoke alerted the people behind us that we were not simply pulling over to the shoulder of the road to pass out water. No, we were in trouble, so they pulled in behind us. I am pretty sure the woman who came to my window to check on us had been at Woodstock. She had all the identifiers — a sleep-ready van, long graying hair, a well-worn long skirt, and an unadorned face — but she was beautiful to me that day, because the lead van was long gone and I had no way to reach them.
She took us all back to her back-to-nature homestead, but she had two things we needed: a bathroom and a telephone. I know, I thank God every day that I made it to retirement without having a lawsuit or being fired. They were lovely people, and the group was oblivious to the dire situation we were in. She handed me the phone and a phone book, and I began looking for someone to help us.
For what it’s worth, 2 o’clock on Father’s Day is a terrible time to find anyone at home, much less someone to help resolve a crisis. I called back our church — no answer. I called everyone I knew in upstate South Carolina — not home. Then I just started calling Baptist churches at random. The first one on the list was Boiling Springs. I was giddy when someone answered, and I dove right into the situation: “I know this is crazy, but do you have a van you could loan us for the week?” I asked.
The voice on the other end said, “Are you the Wanda Kidd who went to seminary with me at Southeastern?”
“Maybe, who are you?”
I did indeed recognize him, and what ensued was nothing less than a miracle. Their van committee was meeting as we were talking, and they voted to let us use the van. The church was just 20 minutes from the home we were visiting, and our rescuer graciously agreed to take us all, including our luggage, to the Westgate Mall parking lot in Spartanburg.
I have often wondered why they did not want us to come to their church. It felt clandestine. Regardless, when I got there with my group, there was a delegation of deacons and a gassed-up van. I was so grateful and effusive in my appreciation that I did not notice that they did not look as delighted as I did.
So, just as we were getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, one of the deacons walked up and knocked on my window. I rolled it down and, with a very stern look, said to me. “I just want to say one thing.”
“Ok”, I said.
“DO NOT BESMIRCH THE NAME on the side of this VAN,”
I agreed and said it all week to the kids in that van, and I believe that our use of their van did not shame First Baptist Church of Boiling Springs.
Oh, that we could all live our lives not besmirching things we say we hold dear.
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Retired campus minister, campus ministry coordinator for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship of North Carolina, and Collegiate Specialist for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship.