CurlyShavings

The Order of the Arrow (OA) is Scouting's National Honor Society. It exists to recognize campers who exemplify the Scout Oath and Law every day, to promote camping and to provide service to others. There are three basic honors one can receive and in October I went through the third, the Vigil. (While it is a secretive society, it is by no means a secret society. Some Sections, geographic groupings of Lodges, provide a Vigil "preview" for parents, allowing them to see what takes place during a Vigil. It is my understanding that all ceremonies are open for observation, just ask your Lodge.)

My Ordeal took place in the early `80s, in Karankawa Lodge on the Texas Gulf Coast. I don't remember much. My Brotherhood took place in April 2005/4, in Cuyahoga Lodge in North East Ohio. It was the most meaningful of the three. My Vigil took Place in late September 2007.

We arrived, hung out and talked for a while, did introductions of new and old Vigils, went over names and generally had a good time of it until well after dark, around 10pm. At that point, we gathered our things and one-by-one walked with a guide to a remote part of camp where our Lodge Chief waited. He spoke to me, gave me certain things to think about during my time alone and asked me not to speak to others during this time.

I was then led to a still-further remote part of camp where I was to spend my night. My guide (my dear friend who was my Staff Adviser during my very first Program Director position at Webelos Resident Camp) helped me clear some ground and get a fire going (one match, lots of dry cedar shingles). Then she left and the darkness swallowed her.

The Lodge Chief had given me a packet of letters, each to be opened at specific times throughout the night. In addition, between these letters, I was to receive a visit from out of the darkness to remind me of certain things, to make certain I didn't need anything and, I suppose, to make certain I was still awake. The first letter said nothing I didn't already know. In fact, all the letters provided were reminders of things that had been said and learned in years past. They were mile-markers through the night, though, and that was useful.

I soon settled into a bit of a routine. I gathered firewood, sawed some logs (literally, not figuratively), set up my camp chair, opened my snacks, got my journal and my Bible and set down to enjoy the night.

It was a cool, clear night with a nearly full moon. I was able to stay in my Scout shorts the entire night as long as I kept the fire going.

By 2330, I had my first "deep" thought: The fire burns only when fed and such also is the fire within us -- without constant feeding, it soon dies out.

At 0030, the fire was beginning to burn low, with many coals. The fire won't let you rest, it must be kept or it doesn't burn at all. Throughout the night I found that the fire changed shapes, not the flames, but its footprint and its character. Some of what determined that shape was what I fed it, logs, sticks, twigs, they all gave it different characteristics. Soon, that which was consumed to coals was consuming other fuel: newly-laid sticks and logs.

In the silence of the woods, the trees breathed around me, insects were singing. The owls called to each other, the fire crackling. The mist, which didn't stay long, crept past on its way to somewhere else. The moon soon joined my vigil, striving to peek between the leaves to see what it is I was doing.

How slowly moves the moon! Silver slivers that dance between the trees, the stumps, the hills in the distance.

A clean-burning life needs to be poked, prodded. Things need to be removed, added. Strategies change with the changing direction and strength of the wind.

Puddles of silver-light on the unkempt leaves and twigs of the forest floor.

By 0200, two of the envelopes had been read, filling my mind and lighting the blackness of the night. I was beginning to wonder how this fire would be put out. Moving further from my circle to find fuel, I found a stump, four inches in diameter of weathered trunk, about four feet high. I knocked it over and, while sawing it into two-foot sections, found the rusted barbed wire. Oh, well. It burned cleanly and long. The ants who had taken up residence were not appreciative.

I picked up my Bible and began reading. "Do not work for food that spoils."

By 0250, the wind began shifting to the east (had been south-southeast), blowing the heat and the smoke into my face. Time to move my camp chair and by 0300, it was decidedly from the north. "Work for food that endures to eternal life."

The moon is puddling over my shoulder, the selena light of silver on rotting leaves behind me. By 0350, it was overhead and then behind me, casting my shadow on the fire before me.

The visits had been quick and timely, their words appropriate for the stage of the night. So too, with the letters, their contents a welcome reminder of Ordeals and Brotherhoods past. And so it was at 0600 (or rather 0555, since I couldn't wait any longer!) that I ripped open my last letter, hungry for additional words, additional thoughts to add to those I'd already read and thought and searched for. Only to find: "Extinguish your fire and wait for your guide". Oh, the disappointment!

I pulled apart the fire and allowed things to grow cool. I had just enough water left to dribble over the coals and hot sticks that now gave me a smoky steam-bath. Stirring the mud and ashes, even the ground became cool. And so I waited for my guide.

And waited. And waited. Had they forgotten me? Without my fire to guide them, would they be able to find me? And so the coldest part of the night began and soon ended as we were collected and walked back to the center of camp where a large and hot breakfast awaited us.