Suppose you were abruptly and violently swept away from everything you ever knew by the word “home." A smidgen less than all of this year’s 77 campers and 30+ Īkšķīši (the little thumbs, the littlest “wee”s) in Camp Nometne’s Heritage program had seen the enthusiastically awarded animated Latvian film FLOW. This wordless movie received many globally coveted awards including, but not necessarily limited to: the Academy, Golden Globe, César, European Film, Latvian National Film Lielais Kristaps, Annie, Independent Spirit, LUX European Audience. Though void of a concurrent human presence, with only structures of a former civilization in place, the Latvian black cat and its other animal cohorts took a watery journey that spoke to many of us humans all around the globe on an existential human level. It is reminiscent not only of those mythic flood stories and ancient tales found in cultures worldwide, such as the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, the biblical story of Noah’s Ark, the Greek myth of Deucalion and Pyrrha, and the Chinese legend of Nuwa, but also vividly recalls the devastation Latvia experienced by the flood of WWII, which sent Latvians running from danger to far reaches of the world, far from their homeland. Flow, the movie, and the cat, wove in and out of our discussions as I asked campers of Heritage (the session of campers that speak only a smattering of Latvian) again and again throughout the two weeks we had together: What are you doing here? Ko tu te dari?
The kickoff to camp is always a candlelight service on the Sunday evening when everyone arrives. During the service, I hinted at what my themes for the coming camp period were, which were journey and “tools” for the trip. The first tool for the trip was light from God. I, as pastor, passed it from the “cross”ed stone altar to the camp director, Erika Daljevskis, who, in turn, gave it on to the counselors and from them, through them, it was given to the children. The leadership in this way was commissioned to pass on the light they were given, not just that evening, but throughout their time at camp. The children, too, once they received it, were to carry it on. The counselors had drawn little paw prints on the candle holders, to make it seem as if Flow’s cat were present on our camp journey, as if to ask: What is Flow doing here? What are we doing here? The sermon was a challenge to everyone to answer these questions as Jesus teaches in Luke 11:1–9, which culminates with:
“I say to you, ASK, and it will be given to you; SEARCH, and you will find; KNOCK, and the door will be opened.”
Jesus taught this as a form of prayer, as if to say that prayerful life is a great explore, an epic journey, where we ASK, SEEK, KNOCK. Aiziet! And they were off!
Anita Bataraga had let me know ahead of time that the ALA “We Are Latvians” traveling exhibition was to be on display in the dining hall during our two weeks at Heritage camp, and this history of the Latvian people written for about an 8th-grade reading level in English was a tremendous tool for discussing our question: “Why are we here?” In our first class I asked the children if they knew how their ancestors got here. Practically the whole roomful of excited children raised their hands and wanted to tell about their relatives, about life-threatening events that caused their particular relatives to flee, about DP camps and ships that carried refugees over the ocean. There was not enough time for everyone to share. We ended the session questioning how the Latvians who had to leave everything they once called home during the horrors of war could possibly have created and sustained such a beautiful camp for us to inherit today. In the following two weeks, I frequently referenced the “We Are Latvians” display, in particular pictures of children in Heritage camp from a few years back and a photograph of the New York church’s minister, Prāvests Ozols, who was a driving force behind the camp’s attainment and development. In one photograph Prāvests Ozols, a giant of a man in many ways (as his name reflects Ozols = Oak), was standing tall and straight at the prow of a U.S. military vessel, reading the Word of God to a group of America-bound refugees. We also talked about Rev. Zariņš, after whom the ēdamzāle was named, who time and time again met the boats of refugees that landed in the New York harbor and offered a helping hand to the Latvians with connections, sometimes shelter and always HOPE. Latvians reached out to one another and together formed religious congregations, cultural organizations, schools, and camps. They started doing this even before sailing to America, in the displaced persons camps. My young father, in fact, was taught by a gifted Latvian writer, Nikolajs Kalniņš, when he was in a DP camp in Germany. This very same Nikolajs Kalniņš penned the camp hymn Augšā saule zeltaina, which our camp kids preferred to sing in Latvian, though we have an English translation. The beauty of language was not lost on them. All these war-torn people mentioned above who had lost everything, passed on the light of knowledge, faith, hope, and love, and in the spirit of creation turned nothing into the camp home the children enjoy today. This is the light they have received, and carry like a candle. This is how they got here. Suddenly the stories about the past became not just a narrative of a distant history, but a part of their own story.
And that turned out to be a very big deal. I don’t know quite when the conversations began this year, but on various occasions counselors, teachers, and even some parents talked about negative experiences they had at Latvian churches, events, and camps, some from a long time ago, 25-plus years, some more recent. There have been both perceived and real insults, rejection and negative exchanges between the various “more or less” Latvian groups. The question “What are you doing here” posed to them often sounded like a rebuke. In essence, you don’t belong here, for whatever reason. These open wounds, feelings about not being good enough or Latvian enough, are not news to any of us, but they felt especially painful in contrast to the joyful dynamic of this thriving camp period. There is pain that hasn’t forgotten and wouldn’t be suppressed even in the current positive milieu, and I realize it will never be forgotten. So I pivoted a bit during the second week of camp from how we got there, to the present: What are we doing here now. The mid-camp Sunday sermon was about Latvian bread, which has a complex flavor precisely because of its sourdough starter. The message was to take your own sour starter, the pain, and mix it into the fresh ingredients of your life. Like the refugees, you don’t forget the wrongs, but rise to the occasion. Let the negative inform you, but don’t let it define you. As Tirzmaliete wrote in the song so important to Latvian refugees worldwide “Ved mani Dievs”: visu ļaunu liec par labu griezt! Turn evil into good. You are the bright stars of promise the Biblical Abraham saw in the sky when he was far from home. As in Psalm 139, which we read in its entirety over the last week at junda and at the Wednesday svētbrīdis, you are knit by God in your mother’s womb, known and loved forever, wherever you go. You are not second-class citizens in this world nor of this camp, but truly inheritors of the kingdom of God. This is the story you should repeat. This is the bigger picture of how God sees you.
The administration, teachers, and counselors work hard throughout the year, every year, to build the two-week program. I do not envy the administrative duties of the director, Erika Dalevskis, and program director, Zandra, before and during camp. I know the art and craft teachers Larisa and Krissi plan and gather supplies all year. One bought little looms handmade in Latvia and taught the kids how to weave a prievīts. This is among other things they do year after year. Two former campers of this period are our talented dance teachers. They dance with Jumalīte, the New York Latvian folkdance troupe, and spend hours poring over dances and figuring out what will work with our kids. The indefatigable Irene Jasuta, camp's music and language teacher (who works with the kids, the īkšķīši, the senči, and then the counselors late evening) writes her whole program ahead of time, always making it interesting and current. The kids read Zelta zirgs (in English), and she taught the kids “Bur man laimi”, the hit with which the Latvian group Tautumeitas placed 13th in the Grand Final of the 2025 Eurovision competition. The now-retired Rev. Laris Saliņš left us his compilation of hymns in both English and Latvian, some are his originals and some translations. We used those, but we also learned new songs translated during camp, which Irene helped me teach to the group. The kids proceeded to sing them at the lake, in the woods, at the dining hall, even on the šķēršļu gājiens. I also made prayer cards ahead of time of three traditional prayers: the Lord’s Prayer, a Peace Prayer attributed to Francis of Assisi, and Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer, often used in twelve-step programs to teach discernment, which I found in Rev. Egils Grislis’s book, Latvian Prayers, Lūgsnas pasaules lielceļos. Finally, the children wrote their own prayers on little scraps of paper, which they placed in the stone altar one Sunday morning, an idea that came about while we explored the outdoor sanctuary with the īkšķīši and their parents. We found a prayer under an altar rock. The altar became our version of the Wailing Wall, where we gave up our joys, hopes, fears, and concerns to God. Copies of the church bulletins, new songs, and prayers were put in the children’s language notebooks, so that they would have them when their journeys continued home and elsewhere. These they can carry with them, come what may in life. If everything else were to be taken away in dark days, they will always be able to sing and pray. There is light in that.
We did finally watch the whole movie Flow, despite technical and time difficulties, and talk about the mystical experiences therein. It was a strange community of different creatures, which they formed by overcoming fears, with a willingness to learn, through loyalty, kindness, and sacrifice. Our time together ended with the simple and heartwarming words Gints Zilbalodis said upon accepting the Oscar:
“We are all in the same boat. We must overcome our differences and find ways to work together.”