I am driving north on I-75. Atlanta is in the rearview mirror. In the back of Marion’s truck is enough food to feed over 50 people for five meals, from Friday night through Sunday breakfast. We are not serving frozen dinners. No sir. We are the cooks for the youth group and their sponsors who are attending the teen convention in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

I am bringing up the rear on this trip. Four large, passenger vans up front. One SUV next in line. In the back is The Beast, otherwise known as the fancy truck which belongs to my wife. My job is to make sure that no one falls behind, and if they do, I am to assist them in whatever way necessary. I’m hoping no one has a flat tire.

In order to keep an eye on the group from the rear, the trailing vehicle must actually keep up with the pack. I did not accurately anticipate how difficult this would be. My approach to driving has mellowed over the years, and I got left in the wind.

First of all, Kristi, our youth minister’s wife, took the lead. She has a reputation for having a lead foot. Her personality is such that she is wired for speed.

“You really think we’re gonna get there by 2:30?”

I’m asking this because I’ve driven to Gatlinburg a few times. I know how long it takes me to drive there.

“Watch me,” she says.

Second of all, keeping six vehicles together on the interstate through Atlanta traffic is not an easy assignment. I got caught in a slow lane, moved over to pass, moved back to get around a truck, and by the time I got clear, the pack was a spec on the horizon in front of me.

When I finally caught up with the group for the third time, they were cruising the left lane like Richard Petty in the straight-away at Talladega. I had to draft behind a Dodge Ram, and sling-shot around him to regain my position.

My real purpose on this trip is to assist Marion in the kitchen. She is the executive chef. I am the apprentice sous chef. She has planned every detail of every meal to be served. I am here to offer a helping hand.

My job consists mainly of filling large pots with water, cutting up lettuce to her preferred width and length, handing her the appropriate ingredients when asked, using hot pads to lift heavy pans out of the oven, and washing up so she can move on to the next thing.

I volunteered to do this. I did not sign up for this trip ignorantly. I knew that we’d be busy. I just didn’t know how busy.

You see, teenagers eat like a pack of wolves. They walk in the door and they are hungry. They get out of bed and they are hungry. They consume large portions of food, and they are still hungry. “Feed Me” is their middle name.

We cooked. We cleaned. We went to the store. We cooked and cleaned up again. We served supper at 10pm, went to bed very late, and we got up early to do it all over again. More cooking. More cleaning. More trips to the store. Cook again and repeat.

If you know anything about the way Marion prepares meals, then you know that she is never gonna run out of food. I think we honestly could have fed breakfast to the entire teen convention on Saturday morning. Note to self…five gallons of grits might be a bit too much.

So, this was our life for the weekend. No regrets. No complaints. Just good old fashioned work with lots of rewards.

For example…

I got to know the other adults who volunteered to make the trip. They are a special breed. They stayed with the kids 24/7. They drove the vans. They made sure the kids got to the sessions. They head counted constantly so no one got lost or left behind. They curbed the drama, they led small group discussions, and they smiled the entire time. They’re the real heroes of this trip.

I took an hour nap on Saturday just to get through the day. But not them.

I also got to see that today’s kids are not so different than we used to be at their age. I say that because I hear a lot of stuff about teens that makes me think they’re not doing so well. They say teens have no respect. They say teens are too consumed with themselves. They say that teens spend too much time on their phones. They say that teens are not social, and they don’t know how to interact with adults anymore.

Hogwash!

This was a great group of kids. Yes, they were loud. Yes, when I went to bed at midnight, they sounded like a herd of elephants going up the stairs over my ceiling. But if I recruited a few of the guys to carry in the heavy coolers of food, they jumped right on it. Several of the girls came into the kitchen and offered to help get meals ready. If they spilt something, they cleaned it up. When given instructions, they never complained. And every last one of them said “thank you” for the meals.

After supper both nights the kids broke up into small groups to talk about the day. The girls were in the living room which is open to the kitchen. Even though I’m banging pots around in the sink, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. They talked about their faith, and about their personal journeys through life. I heard some pretty mature comments coming from the mouths of today’s youth.

Not once did I hear a sponsor have to call the group down or tell anyone to put their phone away. Guys and gals, both. They shared. They listened. They prayed together.

They also acted like kids.

At the table after supper one night, they started singing. Then one of them turned on the big screen and found a karaoke channel on YouTube. Game on. They belted out every word. Adult sponsors swaying. Voices at decibels loud enough to rattle out dental fillings. I was standing with a drying towel and a biscuit pan in my hands watching from a distance.

It was a privilege to hang out with these kids. Girls in braided pig tails. Guys in pajama pants. Dark sunglasses. Messy hair. One brave soul wore her face cream down to the kitchen. Tall kids. Quiet kids. Shy kids. One or two always at the center of it all. A few content just to watch from their seats on the couch.

You know what? This group of kids gave me a gift. They made me grateful. They made me believe that our world is gonna be okay. That kindness is still cool. That good hearts still exist. That our faith still matters.

On the way home, Marion asked me, “Would you do it again?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

I hesitated. “Is Kristi driving again next year?”

I need to work on my NASCAR skills.