What feels like long ago, I was in Ypres, Belgium. Drop it in the comments if you already recognize the name! Ypres was an iconic town in World War I that got absolutely leveled. Either way, we went to the last post ceremony at the Menin Gate that has been going on ever since World War 1 to honor literally only the people from the Commonwealth who died and whose bodies were never recovered. There were too many names on that gate (54,000 and 90,000 more on a wall farther away).

That night, I wrote a poem about the Menin Gate, but I was frustrated because the words were not enough. I called them, “Inadequate words.” The next day, we toured the battlefields of World War I and saw some graveyards and the trenches. In one graveyard, there were 12,000 graves, and 1,800 of them were unknown men who had been recovered.

On that day, standing in the midst of a ton of white graves honoring men over 100 years old, I wrote a poem called “Inadequate Words,” one of the only poems I wrote that I ever thought truly did a feeling justice…because it didn’t describe the feeling. The last line was, “It cannot be described, the feeling unexplained / And that is how it should be, for words could never undo the feeling’s claim.” (Tell me in the comments if you want the whole poem!)

So that is the inspiration for this story. What happens when your way of expressing yourself feels inadequate? What do you do then? Everyone has to figure out their own way to do it, and that is exactly what Genesis Yates did.

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Genesis sighed, setting down her pencil for the school year. The last assignment written, the last test graded, and she was home-free. Well, she was at home, but she was free.

“Genesis!” her mom called. “Your father and I would like to speak with you about something.”

Genesis looked up in surprise. What, had she not completed an assignment to satisfaction? She got up and obediently walked out to the living room.

“So,” Mrs. Yates said, “I know earlier we were speaking about writing camps.”

Digging back in her memory, Genesis realized that it had been March the last time they’d spoken, but she nodded.

“So we snuck a quick peek,” Mrs. Yates continued, “and your father and I booked you into one as an early birthday gift.”

Genesis gaped for a moment, unable to believe her ears. Then she squealed and ran to embrace her mother, then whirled to hug her father. Bouncing up and down excitedly on the balls of her feet, she finally collapsed onto the couch, exhausted from her sudden fit of energy and ready to hear all the juicy details.

“When?” she demanded breathlessly. “Give me details, Mom! Details!”

Mr. Yates chuckled. “Settle down, you look like a jumping bean reincarnated.”

“Haha, Dad, very funny,” Genesis jabbed. “Come on, can’t I be a kangaroo just this once?”

“Sure, but turn your listening ears on,” Mrs. Yates teased. “It’s a day camp—”

“Uh-huh.”

“For two weeks—”

“Uh-huh.”

“They’ll let you have Sabbaths and Friday evenings off—”

“Amazing.”

“You got a scholarship with a submission of your work we sent in—”

“When did you do that?”

Mr. Yates’ eyes twinkled mischievously as his wife continued with no comment. “It’s a prestigious writing camp two hours away—”

“Uh-huh.”

“They teach fiction writing—”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Can you keep that up for two weeks?” Mrs. Yates asked.

“Erm, you said it’s two hours away? And it starts at 8?” Genesis asked, already doing the admittedly painful math in her head. That meant 6:30 wake-up maximum.

“Yes. Should we tell them you’re dropping out?” Mr. Yates teased.

“No!” Genesis exclaimed, appalled that he’d even joke about something that astronomical. “Never! I’ll wake up at—I’m not going to say that atrocious number—every day! I promise! Oh, my goodness, thank you so, so, so, so much! When do I leave? What do I need to bring?”

“It’s in a week, and we’ll get fast food each morning for your breakfast, unless you don’t mind not getting up another half hour early to make your own,” Mrs. Yates explained. “Other than that, they’ll supply everything else: lunch, writing supplies, and workbooks.”

“And why would I mind that?” Genesis laughed, food options already running through her mind. “This’ll be awesome! Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.”

Accordingly, two weeks later, a very drowsy Genesis was sitting in the car, trying to wake up by pinching her arm. An untouched McDonald’s bag was next to her, but her arm was so numb that she didn’t know if she should even attempt its capture.

How do public school kids do this every year? she wondered with a yawn.

She started as Christian pop started blasting through the car, and her mom snuck her a mischievous look through the rearview mirror.

“I don’t want to be accused of starving my beloved daughter, Genesis,” Mrs. Yates said, and that and the music was all Genesis needed to unwrap her breakfast sandwich and begin her breakfast. “Nervous?” Mrs. Yates asked.

“I was trying to block it out,” Genesis scowled.

“Right. Well, do you know the word charismatic?”

“Mom, I’m a writer, you’ve read my work,” Genesis mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit, “of course I know the word charismatic.”

“And that’s what you are,” Mrs. Yates smiled. “Do you also know the word glutton? Slow down, honey.”

“What happened to the malnutritioned waif?” Genesis giggled.

The butterflies only got more intense though as the tires slowed down and finally stopped in front of a community college where other girls and boys were getting out and wishing their parents goodbye. Genesis immediately felt underdressed in her jorts and tank top.

“Okay,” she said a little too quickly, “um, see ya, Mom.”

“Have fun,” Mrs. Yates smiled.

Genesis offered her mom a grin, then stepped out into the craziness. Everyone seemed like they knew where to go, leaving Genesis as the black sheep.

“All you need is one good friend,” she reminded herself, mumbling underneath her breath. Her searching green eyes turned heavenward as the family car rolled away. “You with me, God?”