Being the daughter of an Episcopal priest, it would make sense that I would go to an Episcopal Church camp in the summers when I was a kid.

And I loved it. It was the perfect camp for me. No focus on athletics – no archery, no swimming lessons, no real competitive activities at all. There wasn’t even any camping.

But it was vaguely religious, in that spiritual, campfire songs – skits – and walking-in-the-woods – kind of way.

A handful of church clergy were our leaders, but they were young and never wore their collars. They were like one of us kids, joking and informal.

There weren’t many strict rules, it was a laid back place.

Except there was one thing that we took seriously – Prayer Hill.

Prayer Hill was a special space. It was a small clearing on a tiny mountain that overlooked the camp, deep in a thicket of trees. And every night, after campfire, we would process, single-file, up the hill for evening compline.

And it was understood that, as soon as we took our first step up the steep trail, we had to remain silent – not a whisper or a sound, until we were back down again.

Actually, that’s a lot to ask of pre-teens.

But each evening, after supper, the campers and counselors would take the short hike to this dense nook in the deep woods.

The chapel had rough wooden benches and a stone altar. The pews were worn and saggy from the weather. Leaves covered the benches. Bugs were biting.

There were no formal services. We may have sung camp songs, but mainly the sounds of our music were swallowed up by the screaming cicadas.

One or two prayers were offered up.

And on the last night of camp, we carried candle stubs that dripped and burned our fingers.

But for me, during the summer when I was 10, Prayer Hill was also the place of spiritual revelation.

I can close my eyes now and return there so easiIy. I was a kid who was always in my own head, I was deeply imaginative and easily led to the mystical.

I longed to believe in God, and I longed to feel his/her presence.

As I hiked, a quiet peace ran through me. My body felt light and my brain clear. As I climbed, my spine was electric with joy, unlike anything I’d felt before.

I came into the small clearing and stood to let my breathing slow, and to hear the sounds of the woods go through me. It felt like the moment at the pool just after you launch from the high dive and right before you hit the cold water.

Exhilaration and peace.

Something perfect.

And as the sun lowered beneath the trees, I felt older, as if I was a different girl in a different body.

Or maybe a girl with no body at all, just spirit, like all my seams lined up effortlessly.

Even years later, it points me to something that is constant, burning bright and true

I think the power of that place might have had to do with the wacky mixture of elements: a crucifix rising up from the gnarled bark of a maple tree, a prayer bench covered with bright moss, and the listing stone altar.

The setting was such a stark contrast to the dark, polished pews and the gold cross and stained glass windows of my Episcopal church back at home.

Anyway, that summer, after camp ended and I went home to my family, I distinctly remember feeling transformed. I was more patient with my sisters, more content with myself. I felt spiritually clear, almost as if I was in a monastic state.

But eventually the feeling faded, and I went back to being my same old bratty, junior high self.

The shine slowly wore off.

I was impatient and moody and bored being back in the fall school routine.

And now, all these years later, I wonder at the alchemy of the experience.

Yes, it was the silence that allowed me to meditate and to filter out all of my pre-teen angst. But it was also the intention.

The spark to investigate.

The yearning to open myself up to the divine.

And I think this memory has stayed with me because I haven’t written it off through the years. I’ve kept it in a small, private place.

Away from any editorial cynicism and judgement.

More than anything, our weary old world is in need of great love. Less adult smarts, more childlike wonder. Fewer certainties, more curiosity.And when I read the daily news I wonder what I can do to make a difference.

And when I feel hopeless, I walk.

And I try to pray.

I try to conjure that 10-year-old faith that there was a kind of redemption up on the mountain. Something bigger than my overactive imagination even.

These days I believe that prayer is an act of letting go. Like releasing a breath. A sigh. Like slipping a chafing backpack from our aching shoulders.

A prayer is a question for the universe.

It is a dance of imagination and risk.

And maybe the questions, even unanswered, are enough.

Maybe climbing the hill is all we have.