by Jeremy Camp
Up front, the pastor talked about being delivered from the bondage of drugs and alcohol. A couple of times during the message, my dad’s friend left his seat, ran over to my dad, said, “Man, Bear, this guy knows what he’s talking about!” and then ran back to his seat next to the usher.
As the pastor preached, my mom noticed tears rolling down my dad’s cheeks. The pastor’s words really struck home with my dad, who cried throughout the message.
When the pastor concluded and asked if there were those present who would like to come to the altar to ask Jesus into their hearts, my dad’s friend ran forward while my parents hesitated, both thinking, Haven’t we done this already? When a youth pastor approached and offered to take them to the front if they wanted to answer the pastor’s call, they stood and made their way down the aisle too. The congregation gathered around the three of them at the altar and prayed for them. With all of them crying, my mom was just relieved that the guys were going to change. My dad was immediately delivered from drugs and alcohol and walked out of that church sober.
My parents later learned that alcoholics and hippies were the pastor’s least favorite types of people, but he had still welcomed my dad and his friend into the church that night. The church members had been praying for a revival to break out in their church, and one began that night when, of all people, two drunk hippies answered the altar call. God does work in mysterious ways!
The pastor wound up having many opportunities to share what he called the “whosoever ministry,” exhorting the body of Christ to minister to whomever God brought into their paths.
Instead of focusing on outward things, the members of that church encouraged my parents to get into the Word and into fellowship with other believers. They gave my parents a copy of The Living Bible to take home and suggested they begin reading the Gospel of John. John’s manner of expressing the love Jesus had demonstrated for all mankind through His death and resurrection deeply impacted my mom. She had a revelation that, like my dad had been, she also was a sinner in need of salvation. One night, in her favorite living room chair, she said, “Lord, I am sorry.” That became her life-changing moment. She asked Jesus to come into her heart and prayed, “I will go anywhere, do anything. Whatever you ask, I’m yours.”
That was quite fitting, considering their contrasting personalities: my dad came to Christ in a public, very emotional setting; my mom did so in a private, quiet moment. Yet the immediate impact of their decisions was the same: their lives were completely changed.
On January 22, 1977, in that same Assemblies of God church, they were married. From that day forward, they modeled the type of relationship that God prescribed in Scripture and poured the foundation of faith on which I would be raised.
I was born almost a year later, on January 12, 1978. Eight years later, April and I were joined by our brother Jared. Two years after that, Joshua came along. Josh was born with Down syndrome, and he is a blessing who completed our family in more ways than one.
Our parents’ decisions to become Christians certainly didn’t lead to a life of smooth sailing for them and our family. It was just the opposite, in fact, because we encountered our share of struggles. And not all of us kids always walked the path our parents wanted us to follow.
But all along our journey together, we always knew where to turn for answers to life’s questions: to God’s Word and to each other. And that pattern has remained unchanged as we Camp kids have progressed into adulthood and started our own families. Our family has incredible stories of God’s loving mercy.
LEARNING AT HOME
Before my dad dropped out of high school, he had a difficult time focusing while reading—probably from his abuse of drugs and alcohol. As I grew up, however, my dad was constantly reading the Bible. He said because of his struggles in school, he had hated to read books before becoming a Christian. But he certainly loved to spend time studying God’s Word. In fact, for a short time we lived in Springfield, Missouri, so my dad could attend Central Bible College and prepare for entering full-time ministry.
My family was always heavily involved in church. We were one of those families who were in church practically every time the doors were unlocked. My parents attended and led Bible studies. We would have friends over to our house, and my dad would play his guitar and lead worship right there in our living room. My mom and dad shared their faith with anyone they met, telling them about the complete transformation God had made in their lives.
The impression I have of my parents from when I was younger is how real they were. They were the same at home as they were in church. They wouldn’t go to church and worship with raised hands, talk like a Christian should, and then return home and act or speak differently. They didn’t compartmentalize their lives. They were who they were because that was who they were; the changes God made in their hearts were complete and were reflected in every area of their lives. I credit my parents’ consistency in living the Christian lifestyle as the reason I never became jaded toward Christianity growing up, not even during the years when I wandered from the straight and narrow path.
The phrase “he has a shepherd’s heart” perfectly describes my dad. He is a great listener who truly cares about people. I remember people sitting in our living room pouring out their hearts, and he would not just listen, but intently listen. He is such a people person, and people obviously love being around him.
My dad is hilarious, too. After becoming a Christian, he remained the life of the party—just different types of parties. We would go camping—yes, the Camps went camping—and my dad would make up hilarious songs around the campfire. To get the whole family involved, he’d pester us to echo the silly lyrics he improvised.
One time we all went roller-skating, and he dressed in overalls with shorts over them just to be goofy and see if he could embarrass us.
My mom is more prim and proper. She isn’t outwardly emotional (except when she sees the Lord at work), and she is meticulous. I used to think it took her forever to put her makeup on. It seemed like she wrote slowly too, but when she finished, her handwriting was flawless.
She kept the house clean and organized when I was growing up because, like my dad, she enjoyed having friends over and hosting Bible studies and prayer groups. And my mom was dedicated to praying. I remember many, many times walking into a room and seeing her facedown on the floor, praying and interceding.
My parents are opposites who attracted, but through Christ, their opposite ways complement each other. My dad has a go-for-it attitude. If he feels God wants him to do something, he’s ready to go. My mom will say, “We need to make sure, so let’s pray about it a little more.” My personality is closer to my dad’s, but from my mom I learned the importance of discipline and steadiness in the Christian lifestyle.
When we kids encountered problems, our parents encouraged us with words and wisdom from Scripture—not just with their own words and advice. Prayer time was prioritized because our home was one of prayer. We often prayed together as a family. When we had needs, whether as individuals or as a group, we prayed about them. And we definitely had needs.
CHAPTER 2
TUG-OF-WAR
Our family was not just poor, but superpoor. Before my dad became a Christian, his alcohol and drug use had prevented him from holding down steady jobs. After my parents were saved, their priorities changed to God and laying a foundation for our family.
Because my dad did not have a strong educational background, the better jobs available to him were factory positions that often required long hours and working on Sundays. He chose instead to take construction-type jobs that enabled him to spend more time with our family and remain in fellowship with other believers. Those jobs often meant being laid off, especially during the winter.
It is no exaggeration to say there were days when our cupboards were bare, and we knew they would stay that way until my dad’s next paycheck. As a family, we would pray for food, and I remember nights when we prayed and the next morni
ng there would be a bag of groceries on our front step. As far as I knew, my parents weren’t telling anyone that we were out of food. But God knew, and He would place our grocery needs on someone’s heart. Many times we had no idea who had brought us food, but we always knew it was provided by God.
Our electricity and water were cut off a few times because we couldn’t pay the bills. When the electricity was off, we would make do with candlelight and oil lights until the next paycheck came.
In one house where we lived, a wood-burning stove in our basement provided heat. The basement was creepy to me—it felt like an underground cavern—and even when my dad was out working and I was the oldest male in the house, I was too afraid to go into the basement to light the stove. My mom didn’t like going down there either. I would study or read in my upstairs bedroom while wrapped in blankets because I was so cold. But there was no way I was going down to that basement.
Once when we were without electricity and couldn’t flush the toilet because our water ran on a pump, we would have to get a bucket of snow and dump it into the toilet tank so we could flush. I remember when we ran out of toilet paper and either didn’t have the money to buy more or had to save what little money we did have for greater needs. Our parents taught us to make toilet paper out of newspapers by crunching up the pages and rubbing them together to soften them.
Sometimes we had to scrape together money for my dad to buy gas so he could drive to work. April and I would contribute any change we happened to have accumulated. We would pool together our change, count it on the table, and tell our dad, “Okay, here’s $3.50.”
We didn’t have to live that way all the time, but it happened enough that I have clear memories of what those experiences were like.
We wore a lot of hand-me-downs, but our parents did their best to make sure we had what we needed. If one of us needed a pair of jeans or shoes, we’d go get them. Every once in a while we would have enough money to eat out at a place such as Wendy’s, and eating out—even if it was fast food—was a real treat.
Paycheck to paycheck, my parents lived by faith. I would watch them closely and marvel at their faith during difficult circumstances that I knew had to be stressful. I remember times when our needs were great, and my dad would pull out his guitar and lead us in a time of family worship. Despite the circumstances, he would play and sing with incredible joy. For my parents, God truly was good all the time.
I needed my parents’ example. As I worked my way through my elementary school years, I began to realize how our situation compared to the families of others my age. As that realization set in, I became embarrassed that we were poor.
Our school took part in the government program that provided free lunches for kids from low-income families. To have my name on the free-lunch list was especially embarrassing. In seventh grade, I believe, I was so ashamed that I would beg my parents to give me money so I could be seen buying lunch instead of having my food given to me.
I once wore the same shirt twice in a week, and when another student pointed it out, I was so humiliated that I wanted to hide.
But I never resented our situation. I knew my parents worked hard to make as much money as they could for us, and they left no doubt that their faith was in God to provide. And each time He met our needs, by whatever means, they made sure we kids knew it was God who had provided.
Even the Pintos.
GIVING AND RECEIVING
Cars were among the gifts that people blessed us with, and we sure had some interesting vehicles. People were gracious in offering us cars, but, of course, they weren’t the types of cars that we would be able to use for years and years. We would drive one for as long as we could, then God would put it in someone else’s heart to give us our next vehicle. We were thankful to have each one.
One of our cars was a beat-up, little orange Ford Pinto. My mom drove it one day to pick up April and a couple of her friends from a Girl Scouts meeting. As my mom drove home, she could see in the rearview mirror that one of April’s friends was big-eyed as she surveyed the interesting characteristics of the car’s interior.
“Um, where did you get this car?” April’s friend asked.
“Oh, a friend gave it to us,” my mom answered.
The girl resumed her inspection before saying just loud enough for my mom to hear, “Hmmm, some friend.”
My mom chuckled and kept motoring down the road in the free Pinto.
I remember another car—also an orange Pinto—that my mom was driving when she picked me up at church. I hopped in and looked down to see the ground under my feet. The passenger-side floorboard was so rusted that there were big holes in the floor.
I closed the door and noticed a belt hanging from it.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Buckle up and hold on to the belt,” my mom told me, “because if you don’t, the door will fly open when we go around curves.”
That was one instance when obeying my mom was easy. I kept a firm grip on that belt all the way home.
When I reached junior high, playing sports helped make me pretty popular among my classmates. I actually was too cool for my own good, but that will be addressed later.
One day after school, I was talking with my girlfriend while waiting on my dad to pick me up. Girlfriend actually is too strong a word to describe our relationship. We were “going out,” if you remember that phrase, even though we weren’t going out anywhere. But at the time, it seemed like a serious relationship. Not only was she my girlfriend, but she also was a cheerleader. So there I was, the popular football player, trying to look all cool while talking to my cheerleader girlfriend, when I heard a loud car entering the parking lot.
I turned, as did all the others around me, and saw my dad pulling up in yet another Pinto—a red one this time—that someone had given us. The car had lost its muffler some time before, so there was no way to discreetly pull up to the school.
The Pinto was rusted and beat up, and I felt like everyone outside the school was watching as I walked over to it. I grabbed the passenger-side door handle and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. I gave it another yank while trying to look like it wasn’t my second attempt. Still nothing. I had to crawl through the window and into the seat. Trust me, there’s no way to do that without being noticed.
Especially because I was a popular athlete in school, I dealt with embarrassment a great deal, but I still find it interesting that I didn’t resent my family’s financial situation. I wished that we could have better cars and that we didn’t have to go to secondhand stores to purchase clothes, but because of the attitude my parents had and displayed, there wasn’t resentment.
All along they worked hard and taught us about having faith in God, that He would meet our needs. And He did, countless times.
We weren’t able to have many of the things we wanted, but that taught us to appreciate the times we actually did receive things on our lists of wants.
Christmas was a big deal in our home. I always had trouble sleeping on Christmas Eve and invariably would wake up around three in the morning and ask my parents, “Can we please get up? Can we please get up?” They would send me back to bed, though, and I would have to wait until a more decent hour to get up and see what gifts we had.
My parents were excited about Christmas too, because they had saved up whatever money they could for gifts to make Christmas morning special for all of us.
One gift I distinctly recall receiving demonstrates how we had learned to appreciate what others our age might consider a small gift. I was big into sports growing up, and one Christmas I received a Nike duffel bag for all my sports gear. I was so excited. I carried that bag anytime I had a reason to haul my equipment around.
While the bag was nice to receive and very practical, what meant more was the knowledge that my parents had worked odd jobs and saved up their money to give me a gift I didn’t need.
I hope that my children have the same appreciation I did when I was young. Even though I’m
in a different financial position than my parents were, my wife and I want our children to have a full appreciation of how the gifts they receive on Christmas morning are blessings from God. That lesson is probably easier to teach when a family has fewer resources, as my family did when I was growing up.
Although my parents did not have a lot of material resources, they still were giving people. They were great at giving others time and attention—two resources people often fail to realize they have to offer.
In addition to the Bible studies and church groups they took part in, my parents also served as caretakers for troubled boys. When I was six, they started working with a group home to provide a home for teenaged boys who had been in trouble. As many as eight boys stayed with us at one time, and some of the kids came from really tough backgrounds.
Originally my parents were told it would be okay if they shared Christ with the boys, but only if the boys asked about Him. However, when my parents did actually share the gospel with the boys who showed interest, the group home disapproved.
Because of that, my parents left the program after almost a year. My dad took a job as a child-care worker at a home for boys, so my parents were constantly bringing in boys and even some adults who needed help. I remember an elderly woman in a wheelchair who lived with us for a while.
I also remember a truancy officer who would call my parents often to ask if we could take in another troubled boy. And our pastor would connect my parents with people he knew who needed a place to stay.
On a couple of different occasions, I even contributed kids to the “Camps’ program.” They weren’t even close friends, but I knew they had difficult home situations, and I asked my parents if they could stay with us.
“If you don’t mind sharing a room with them,” they told me.
I was fine with that, and when their parents agreed to let them live with us for a while, I had new roommates.
