I was a young boy, eleven years old, and I was at sleep-away camp in upstate New York. As anyone who has ever been a camper knows, visitors weekend is a very big deal.

In the morning, when our parents were due to arrive, we waited anxiously for our parents to get there.  What would they bring me? We thought. I hope they don’t embarrass me in front of my friends, and they better not be late!

Some parents would be waiting at the visitor’s entrance at the precise time allowed. Not one second of precious family time would be wasted. Some parents would bring a carload of treats. Home baked goods, favorite foods, and drinks. Some parents came with your siblings or a grandparent in tow, and maybe, if you were lucky, the family pet would be there too.

But one year in particular, something very unusual happened. A family came in a stretch limo.

A stretch limo was a very big deal back then. This one was a white Lincoln Continental with tinted windows.

Hoo boy!

The limo parked in front of one of the bunkhouses down the road from mine.

No one ever saw anything like it. Such privilege. Such importance. We all thought That’s a very lucky boy!

The first thing you did on visitors weekend, after you got your hugs and treats, was show your family your bunk.

Your bunk was your special place. You decorated it, and you kept it clean – or not. It was like you owned your own piece of real estate, and you were always proud to show it off.

The bunkhouses at my camp were high on a hill. We all led our family members on the trek up the hill and over to the bunkhouse we shared with our buddies.

But the family from the white stretch limo was making the climb up the hill in the stretch limo. No trudging up a hill for them.

We figured, when you’re that rich you could get anything you want.

Besides the white limo, the visitors weekend went on like any other. It was all very happy and a lot of fun.

It wasn’t until a few weeks after camp concluded I found out that the lucky kid with the white stretch limo, wasn’t a lucky kid at all.

His dad had died.

The camper father was lying in his hospital bed that summer, and he knew the end was very near. He told his wife he did not want to miss the last camp visitors weekend he would ever see. He wanted to give his son a hug, maybe the last hug he would ever be able to give him.

And so, he went to camp that summer in a white stretch limo, which was big enough for him and his wife, his nurse, and the medical equipment that was keeping him alive.

That’s when I learned, at a young age, not to envy, not to assume, and not to want what I think others have.

That’s when I learned to thank God for every little thing and the big, important things, too.