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was from New Orleans, Louisiana, and I attended CKT as a camper for four years. As a high school bochur who had since moved to Silver Spring, Maryland, I couldn’t imagine staying on campus for the summer, but my friends who did had such a good time that I gave it a try — and ended up working as a rotating counselor for six amazing years. Some years I was also the head of night activity, and I was assigned the self-created role of “PrizeGuy,” ensuring campers got the prizes and rewards promised them throughout the summer.

To say that the head counselors of the camp, Rabbi Weinberger (of Monsey then, of Brooklyn now), and his counterpart, Rabbi Yitzchok Schwarz (who was my rebbi in Telshe before he moved to Monsey) were masters of their craft would be an understatement. They embody the very best of chinuch, given over in a way that the boys never realize they’re being taught something.

One year, legendary mechanech, speaker, and visionary founder of Torah U’Mesorah’s SEED program, Mr. Avi Shulman a”h, had a son working in CKT. Mr. Shulman (he eschewed the title “Rabbi”) spoke to our group of staff members around a breakfast table once the kids had gone to learning groups. He told us something I would never forget, and I can still see him in my mind’s eye, more than 30 years later.

“What you can teach a child in four weeks in the summer may be more than he will learn the entire year from his rebbi in school,” he said. “He doesn’t realize he’s learning and won’t block the lessons. How you behave on the baseball field when you lose — or when you win — will be ingrained upon your camper’s psyche.”

Mr. Shulman went on to discuss the responsibility we each had for the campers, and how we could impact the rest of their lives. It was a memorable discussion, something that had a lasting impact on all of us.-

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a similar way, I learned by osmosis from Rabbis Schwarz and Weinberger, who taught by example. One situation in particular stands out in my mind.

Summer of ’92 was challenging because of the weather; it rained nearly every day. We even wrote a song about it. I still remember the lyrics:

Every day it rained in camp, every day it rained in camp.

Sundance, spoondance, either way… every day’s a rainy day.

Every day’s a rainy daaaaayyyyy… in Summer ’92.

And then came summer of 1993, when, at the end of July, we were hit with a weather anomaly: “The Storm,” as locals called it, a convective wind event that comprised of 100-plus-mile-per-hour wind gusts. It downed thousands of trees, power lines, and poles in Northeast Ohio, causing millions of dollars in damage.

On campus, we hunkered down in the basement of the dormitory (there were no bunkhouses — this was a yeshivah). I’ll never forget it: lightning flashed, thunder boomed, winds howled, and trees fell — and afterward, the beautiful 50-acre campus, which housed ball fields and green spaces, looked like a tornado had hit. Literally. But any mention of the T-word was met with a serious look from head staff, who silenced us quickly. There was no reason to worry the kids, nor their parents.

We lost power, and it remained out for several days. Those were some of the most formative days of my life as I watched the head staff deal with the situation while staying committed to their responsibility to give Kol Torah campers a positive experience.

As we surveyed the playing fields strewn with debris and were corralled into becoming an ad hoc groundskeeping crew, the staff was less than upbeat. We dragged large branches to the side and collected twigs, clearing a soccer field here and a punchball field there. During the day, the campers were able to play, but as the sun set, we wondered what would happen next.

Well, baruch Hashem, the stoves in the kitchen were gas powered, and they were able to cook dinner. We sat at our dinner tables with flashlights and candles and lingered over the meal. The head staff initiated a round of “the numbers game,” where each person is given a number and one person starts. He says his number, and the number of someone else. That person must repeat their own number, and then say someone else’s number. As the pace increases, tongues get tangled, people misspeak, and you’re out. And so it goes, until only the strongest players survive. Five-Two! Two-Seven! Seven-Five! Five-Seven! Seven-Five!

The whole camp felt the energy and finally, when one boy was declared the winner, we bentshed in the dim lighting, singing the words together in a festive mood despite the heat and the darkness.

But what about night activity?

No problem.

“Talent show,” declared Rabbi Weinberger.

Two camp vans were recruited to shine their headlights on the steps of the high school building, which became our makeshift stage. The mood was upbeat, so much so that many of the campers forgot this isn’t the normal way to put on a talent show.

What struck me then was not merely the creativity of the head counselors, but that when things look bleak and dark, we have the ability — and responsibility — to brighten the moment. We can, and must, work to uplift ourselves and others, and never despair.

Hashem runs the world, and He is a meitiv — He desires to do good with us — and doesn’t want us to be sad. We have to remember that and make the most of every situation. Never give in to depression, because Hashem has a plan.

That summer, I learned that every day we can change reality, just by willing it to be.

Jonathan Gewirtz is a columnist, speaker, and speechwriter based in Monsey, New York.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1075)