Lose Yourself
May 1, 2025 | By Joseph Yu BF ‘28
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Children’s Games, 1560
Last summer, I volunteered to be a counselor at a week-long summer camp. It was your standard summer camp, just with one small detail—all of the attendees were foster children.
Upon arriving at the retreat grounds after a 1.5-hour car ride, the work began immediately. I was handed beds to set up, bikes to inflate, and boxes upon boxes of toys to unpack. Some of my fellow counselors had been participating for over 10 years, whereas this was my first time—nonetheless, we all did the same work. I quickly learned it was not going to be an orchestrated show where my fellow first-time counselors and I fit nicely into the cogs of a smooth-oiled machine. Instead, everyone was going to be flexible and constantly involved, shattering any semblance of a job description.
We were allowed to use our phones during break times each day, but I decided to go internet-free for the entire week, layering my phone in plastic bags and taping my holder shut to prevent any wayward ideas. I was now fully immersed without any distractions, and little did I know, this idea of “I” would soon be transformed to its very core.
Over the course of the week, we accompanied the children to your standard concoction of summer camp activities: swimming (with a water trampoline, of course), biking, and fishing, along with a biblical skit at the end of the day. As they swam, ran, and laughed, these children began to appear to me as just that—they were children too.
I’m sure all they wished for was to be treated as anyone else their age would be treated, and it was our job to do that for them this week. But then there were times when I was reminded that they weren’t just children. They were children who’d lived in war every day of their lives. Some had bruises running the complete length of their legs. Others, stitched scars on their faces. One 11-year-old attendee, Jacob (not his real name) had been through 21 different foster families. That’s a new family every six months. In his lifetime, 42 different people had been his parents. But Jacob shared that in these 10 days he’d spent with us (this was his 2nd year attending), he felt more loved than he’d ever been by any foster family.
These words from an 11-year-old pierced right through my own heart. Despite the turmoil of my own family that made for sleepless nights and a heavy-yoked heart throughout my childhood, I saw that I was still being cared for. Families of this world are broken—torn apart by infidelity, alcoholism, bitterness, and workaholism. But I believe in these 10 days, Jacob caught a glimpse of the even greater family he is part of. Christian communities have traditionally referred to themselves with familial unity, on the basis that we are first adopted into Christ’s family through his αγάπη (agápe)—unconditional, sacrificial love for us. For Jacob then, we strived to be reflections of Christ’s agápe. In the Gospel of Matthew as Jesus is preaching to the crowds, “his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him.”
Yet Jesus replies in what initially seems like a quite irreverent gesture, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” Is Jesus disowning his own family? Certainly not. Jesus indeed has an earthly family as his mother and brothers wait for the opportunity to speak with him. But he recognizes his greater, heavenly family that will last for eternity. “Pointing to his disciples, [Jesus] said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother’” (Matthew 12:46-50 NIV). The best part is, that Jacob is called to be part of this family, I am called to be part of this family, and so are you. Regardless of the earthly families we may come from, we are all called to join God’s family, knit together with the love of agápe.
Amid our volleyball matches, arts and crafts, and mealtimes, however, the greatest hurdle for these children would turn out to be with falling asleep. Unfortunately, sleep triggered traumatic memories for many of them, so helping the children fall asleep was going to require the most concentration out of my counselor's “job description.”
Each night, as we walked around the dark basement with guitar lullabies in the background, my mind was focused solely on the children and what I could do to care for them. I would kneel on the ground to pick up their stuffed animals and talk level with them face-to-face until they became tired. As the nights went on, I found a humbling air in physically kneeling—a reminder that I am not here for myself, but for them. No longer do I fit into the job description as a cog in a well-oiled machine, but with the transformation of humbling service, the job description becomes part of me.
The greatest challenge, however, was yet to come. Sam (not his real name) was by far the camp’s most jubilant, energetic child. Filled with a contagious laugh and infectious smile, Sam always put himself out there whenever we needed volunteers or had spontaneous dance battles. On Thursday, the final night, he was the last person I expected to see in tears. I was called over after several counselors had already consoled him, and sobbing, Sam begged not to be sent home.
Fighting through hyperventilated breaths he told us how he thought camp would last for another week and if it was just prolonged by a single week, that would solve everything. His usual beaming, green eyes instead brimmed with terror. My heart could only ache with his. I could not begin to imagine the terrible reasons for his fear. Yet in that moment, I wanted nothing more in the world than for a sliver of peace to pierce Sam’s heart and let him know that even if things don’t seem okay, God is in control. My whole heart and mind were focused on reflecting God’s calming power to Sam. I kept my speech slow and gentle as his hyperventilating grew faster and faster. Just as Jesus, in Mark 4:35-41, reflected his calm nature onto the storm while his disciples frantically feared that they would drown, I tried to do the same. As I prayed with Sam for peace, the Transfiguration emerged in my mind. At this retreat-like event in Jesus’ ministry, the disciples “fell facedown to the ground, terrified.” But Jesus’ words were simply, “Get up,” and “Don’t be afraid” (Matthew 17:6-7 NIV). In this moment I chose not to be afraid, to be bold in asking God for peace, and suddenly, a face of calmness dawned over Sam.
“Let’s sleep tonight, have one last day of fun tomorrow, and take all the joys we had from this week back home. How does that sound?” Sam nodded in agreement, and dressed in the love and peace of Christ, he fell asleep.
I arrived back home the next afternoon, where I was reminded of my fortune in the mere fact of living alongside the comfort of family members. I attempted to summarize the week for my father, but words were simply inadequate for the splendor I had experienced.
“You’ve started to forget about your own problems,” my father quipped. “That’s a wonderful thing.”
It was more than a week-long genuflect, but a katabasis of my heart, arriving at a place of total, humble service. In the process, I began to lose myself. Who I was as an individual was slowly abolished. But no, I was neither lost nor erased. Instead, I became a member of Christ’s body, intertwined with my fellow brothers and sisters in love. Agápe love. Before departing for the retreat site, I was at a loss for what to pray for specifically. I simply prayed, “Lord, fill me with your love, that I may love others.”
Looking back on Friday, I think he did just that. With service, he humbled me and stripped away my own problems and worries. But God did not leave me bare. Just as he filled Sam with loving peace on the final night, he filled me with the strength to face fear and continue serving faithfully. I may wear the same physical clothes, but with spiritual garments, Christ “transform[s] [me] by the renewing of [my] mind” (Romans 12:2 NIV). May retreats be places to lose ourselves and shed our outer burdens, and as we depart from them, to be re-clothed with the presence of God.