The Crystal Fishbowl

The air was crisp and cold. Stars twinkled in the moonlit sky. The earth, frosted clean and smooth with white, rose majestic toward craggy mountain peaks. Beneath them spilled the undulating backdrop of the lesser hills, where a stream of busses filled with fervent teens lumbered up the snow-clad road. In the evening stillness, one could almost hear them sing their hymns of joyful gladness, the journey almost done.

They came from all over the northeast, eager for winter sport and the word of the Lord. For most, it was not so much the draw of fellowship, but the freedom from parental censure. They were bound for Snow Camp, tucked deep in the foothills of the Adirondacks, where sin and salvation would be carefully explained to those trembling souls who yearned to believe.

In single file they came, each bus chugging to a halt in a barely plowed lot. Pure and deep, freshly fallen snow shrouded the spot lit cluster of buildings where lights glittered from welcoming windows. To the left of a clearing were two white buildings, a sprawling one-story with immense windows, and further back, a three-story Victorian, complete with a pair of crenellated towers. To the right of the clearing was a nondescript gray building that was longer than the other two buildings combined. Forming a U at the far end of the clearing was a second gray building, as immense as the other. Wide paths, made by the previous week’s campers, crisscrossed the clearing.

It was late, well past ten. Several busses had already arrived, with more coming. Campers and counselors spilled out onto the lot, their coats of winter hues: bright blues, greens, reds and sporty stripes. They toted suitcases or duffels, along with skis, skates, and even a few sleds. They laughed and shouted, forming tight groups, greeting old friends as they gathered their belongings and headed toward the buildings.

Heads turned as a slender red haired girl paused at the top step of a newly arrived bus. Her face was painfully lovely, as if sculpted by an unworldly master. Even in bulky winter clothes, her shape was discernibly female. Her cheeks were flushed; her gray eyes sparkled with excitement. She looked around in amazement. More than a few admirers swallowed heavily or caught their breath, unable to look away. She wore a lavender ski jacket, with hat, gloves, scarf and pants in a lighter hue, looking as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. Some whispered, noting the writing on the side of her bus—Calvary Baptist Church, Concord, New Hampshire. She seemed oblivious to the attention.