THE BOY UNDER THE TREE

In the summer recess between freshman and sophomore

years in college, I was invited to be an instructor at a high

school leadership camp hosted by a college in Michigan. I

was already highly involved in most campus activities, and I

jumped at the opportunity.

About an hour into the first day of camp, amid the frenzy

of icebreakers and forced interactions, I first noticed the

boy under the tree. He was small and skinny, and his

obvious discomfort and shyness made him appear frail and

fragile. Only 50 feet away, 200 eager campers were

bumping bodies, playing, joking and meeting each other,

but the boy under the tree seemed to want to be

anywhere other than where he was. The desperate

loneliness he radiated almost stopped me from approaching

him, but I remembered the instructions from the senior

staff to stay alert for campers who might feel left out.

As I walked toward him I said, "Hi, my name is Kevin and

I'm one of the counselors. It's nice to meet you. How are

you?" In a shaky, sheepish voice he reluctantly answered,

"Okay, I guess." I calmly asked him if he wanted to join the

activities and meet some new people. He quietly replied,

"No, this is not really my thing."

I could sense that he was in a new world, that this whole

experience was foreign to him. But I somehow knew it

wouldn't be right to push him, either. He didn't need a

pep talk, he needed a friend. After several silent moments,

my first interaction with the boy under the tree was over.

At lunch the next day, I found myself leading camp songs

at the top of my lungs for 200 of my new friends. The

campers were eagerly participated. My gaze wandered over

the mass of noise and movement and was caught by the

image of the boy from under the tree, sitting alone, staring

out the window. I nearly forgot the words to the song I

was supposed to be leading. At my first opportunity, I tried

again, with the same questions as before: "How are you

doing? Are you okay?" To which he again replied, "Yeah,

I'm alright. I just don't really get into this stuff". As I left

the cafeteria, I too realized this was going to take more time

and effort than I had thought - if it was even possible to

get through to him at all.

That evening at our nightly staff meeting, I made my

concerns about him known. I explained to my fellow staff

members my impression of him and asked them to pay

special attention and spend time with him when they could.

The days I spend at camp each year fly by faster than any

others I have known. Thus, before I knew it, mid-week had

dissolved into the final night of camp and I was

chaperoning the "last dance". The students were doing all

they could to savor every last moment with their new

"best friends" - friends they would probably never see

again.

As I watched the campers share their parting moments, I

suddenly saw what would be one of the most vivid

memories of my life. The boy from under the tree, who

stared blankly out the kitchen window, was now a shirtless

dancing wonder. He owned the dance floor as he and two

girls proceeded to cut up a rug. I watched as he shared

meaningful, intimate time with people at whom he couldn't

even look just days earlier. I couldn't believe it was him.

In October of my sophomore year, a late-night phone call

pulled me away from my chemistry book. A soft-spoken,

unfamiliar voice asked politely, "Is Kevin there?"

"You're talking to him. Who's this?"

"This is Tom Johnson's mom. Do you remember Tommy

from leadership camp?

The boy under the tree. How could I not remember?

"Yes, I do", I said. "He's a very nice young man. How is

he?"

An abnormally long pause followed, then Mrs. Johnson

said, "My Tommy was walking home from school this week

when he was hit by a car and killed." Shocked, I offered my

condolences.

"I just wanted to call you", she said, "because Tommy

mentioned you so many times. I wanted you to know that

he went back to school this fall with confidence. He made

new friends. His grades went up. And he even went out on

a few dates. I just wanted to thank you for making a

difference for Tom. The last few months were the best few

months of his life."

In that instant, I realized how easy it is to give a bit of

yourself every day. You may never know how much each

gesture may mean to someone else. I tell this story as

often as I can, and when I do, I urge others to look out for

their own "boy under the tree."

David Coleman and Kevin Randall