A Montreat Reflection by Caleb Ford

Part 1

It began the moment my feet hit Montreat’s soil in North Carolina. The

mountains breathed peace. The trees spoke silence. I mean it felt like the wind

didn’t just blow—it carried songs. The air didn’t just feel fresh-it felt sacred.

Everything there felt so overwhelmingly... right.

You ever walked into a place that feels like it was waiting for you?

That's Montreat.

And not in some ordinary way, either. I’m talking Garden-of-Eden type peace.

I’M TELLING YOU! It felt like stepping into the GARDEN OF EDEN! Not

metaphorically, not in a figurative way. No, really—I mean that deep, almost

supernatural kind of harmony that makes you pause mid-step and wonder if

you’re dreaming. Everything was in order, yet it wasn’t stiff or fake. It was alive,

it was soft, it was...perfect. Like God had walked through earlier and said, “Yes.

This is good. This is how the world was meant to be.”

The sky, the laughter, the warmth between people—it was all perfect. You

could be yourself without feeling small.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that heaven had touched earth right here. The trees

knew it. The water whispered it. And even the people—strangers, leaders,

teens—I swear they moved like they were synced in some kind of holy rhythm.

Smiles weren't forced; they bloomed. Conversations weren’t shallow; they

resonated. Everyone was so close, so together, it felt like we’d been friends

forever. And every laugh felt like it echoed straight into the heart of God.

And in that garden of God’s presence, something started stirring in me—more

than joy. It was the Holy Spirit. I could feel Him there. Not just in chapel or

scripture, but in the way people held space for each other, how strangers

became family overnight.

For once, I didn’t have to shrink or stretch. I could just... be me. And everyone

around me did the same. No masks. No fear. Just openness.

We broke off into small groups. Mine started off distant—like we’d all brought

our own invisible walls. Socially, we circled each other, quietly holding onto our

own stories, unsure if it was safe to share. Social-wise, we were satellites.

Close, but not quite orbiting each other.

The next day we broke off into small groups. Still the same, but then something

strange happened. Snap. Somehow, almost without warning, we cracked wide

open. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit nudging us. Maybe it was Chris, our

counselor, being wise enough to read the room and wait for the moment to

arrive. But suddenly, there we were: vulnerable, laughing, sharing pieces of

ourselves we hadn’t planned to give away. Our quiet turned to warmth, and our

distance turned into closeness—real closeness.

Even Chris, our counselor, created a secret code—“Era Era.” “Era Era” are not

just words—there’s a sound attached to it. That sound mimics a DJ scratching

albums on his turntable. I know, it sounds like nonsense. But that was the

magic of it. Chris convinced us it should be our thing. Anytime we saw one

another across campus, we’d yell—or whisper—or scream “Era Era!” like it

was our secret handshake. I mean, it was hilariously random, but it worked. It

became our little spark of joy. Even if you were halfway across the quad, you’d

hear “Era Era!” and boom—an instant smile.

I felt so alive there. I felt found.

There’s no shortcut to that kind of bond. No hack, no app, no filter that can give

you what Montreat gave us. It was sacred, spontaneous, perfectly imperfect.

And God wasn’t just around—it felt like He was walking with us, smiling at every

inside joke, every hug, every “Era Era!” that rang through the trees.

I’ll never forget that feeling. Not just of being in a perfect place—but of being

perfectly placed.

Part 2: The Dance Floor & The Unexpected Guest

It was Tuesday, and the mood outside JP (Jeremiah Project) was shifting.

Something was brewing near the setup crew and the buzz of speakers being

tested. I turned to Lucy from Southminster church and said, “What’s going on

over there?” She glanced over casually and said, “I think they’re having Rec

today.”

After JP wrapped up, we all found ourselves gravitating toward the Rec event—

a dance party. Normally, this kind of thing would've been terrifying for a shy

guy like me. The idea of stepping onto a dance floor felt like jumping into a

spotlight I hadn’t asked for. So, I stayed back, hanging out with my circle—

Grayson, Ellie, Summer, and Brayden (Brayden was the first person I met at

Montreat, and we became friends). So, my group was a safe space. Chill vibes.

Dance-free zone.

But then something weird happened. Over by The Huck, surrounded by friends

and wrapped in laughter, I started... dancing. Like, really dancing. It wasn’t

planned. It just hit. The music crept under my skin, and my feet had their own

plan. My friends saw me and immediately lost it— “Caleb! Since you’re

dancing! Why not just go on the dance floor!”

I laughed them off and waved them off, but something in me had shifted. We

took a walk, and the music followed me like a tide rising. And soon, I was ready.

Ready to cast off the shyness and let loose. But that’s when the twist hit: Mr.

Robert and Pastor Mary Moore said it was time to go.

“Nooo,” I begged. “Please let me stay! I just got warmed up!”

“Of course you can go,” they said. I bolted from the van like a rocket, arms

flailing, sprinting toward the beat with uncontainable excitement.

And then—

A bear.

Right there. Out of nowhere. A real-life, paw-swinging, big, fuzzy black bear.

I gasped. Froze. The creature stood just about 10 to 12 feet away. My heart

skipped like a scratched record (“Era Era”), and I let out the most dramatic,

high-pitched scream you could imagine:

“AAAAAAAAAAA!”

And you know what? That bear flinched. It backed up an inch, startled, like it

hadn’t expected its dinner to come with surround sound. I didn’t even turn—I

just pivoted my eyes, scanning wildly for help. And just like that... the bear was

gone.

When I saw that bear left my eyesight. I was gone with the wind.

I ran like lightning down the hill full of adrenaline, yelling in panic, “I saw a bear!”

Some of the children on the van looked at me like I’d been hit with too much

music. “He’s being dramatic,” someone nonchalantly said. “He probably

realized we weren’t going to the dance floor with him and made something up.”

I blinked. “What?!”

Then, like a movie scene—Mrs. Mary Moore ran up Gone with the Wind style,

slamming the van door in pure fear. And everyone saw them. Two bears,

coming down the hill. Eyes widened. Silence broke.

Suddenly, two security guards and two brave girls who saw the bears from the

party puffed up like superheroes and shouted the bears away. Those bears took

off, never even getting a chance to dance. And Montreat? Montreat added

another wild memory to its legacy.

I may not have made it back to the dance floor that night—but that encounter?

That moment of fear-meets-comedy? It’s the kind of story you tell for the rest

of your life.

Part 3:

The next day, the music called again—but this time, it was the Barn Dance, and

I showed up ready. No more hesitation. No more chilling on the sidelines. I

stepped into the barn like I’d rehearsed this moment in my dreams, and from

the very first beat, I never left the dance floor.

Seriously—ask Samuel from Southminster, Olive, and Elliot. They’ll back me

up. I danced and danced and danced. The only time I left was for one sacred

mission: s’mores with Olive. We grabbed the gooey, melted happiness, then I

bee-lined back like the music was pulling me on a string. It was electrifying. The

lights, the movement, the laughter—it was like joy had a heartbeat, and I was

dancing to it.

That night, I wasn’t shy. I wasn’t quiet. I wasn’t cautious. I was me. And

everyone around me was exactly who they were meant to be too. It's hard to

describe, but it was like Montreat gave each of us permission to exist louder,

fuller, and freer.

And that feeling didn’t vanish when the music stopped. It followed us into the

next day—then came the last day. That’s when everything turned tender.

We gathered with candles. Each flame flickered like a soul saying goodbye, and

the air buzzed with memories. I found Brayden—one of the first people I met—

and hugged him tight. We shared that unspoken look, like “we did this.” Then

came the goodbyes. One by one, stories were shared and laughter mingled

with tears.

Back at the boys' cabin, it was the final moment for Pastor Mary Moore’s group

and Southminster. We gathered, close and heartfelt, and honored Lucy and

Nina—two amazing souls heading off to college. People offered up funny

stories and sweet tributes, and it was one of those moments where everything

just... paused. Time stood still so we could remember how far we’d come.

Then came the guitar. Two voices rose in song, and suddenly the tears flowed

harder. Something about music has a way of breaking us open, and this song?

We started breaking down crying. The hugs were tighter. The silence heavier.

And when it came time to part—I cried. Not just once. I cried again the next day.

Hugged my friends with every ounce of goodbye I could muster.

And when I got home... my body was back. Sure. But my mind? My soul? Still

dancing under barn lights. Still screaming "Era Era!" in the hills. Still wrapped

in the peace of Eden where everything had felt perfect.

Part 4:

The morning I left Montreat, the sun didn’t rise—it lingered. Like even nature

didn’t want to say goodbye. I rolled my bags toward the car with a weight that

had nothing to do with luggage. Every step felt like I was walking away from

something sacred. But somehow, I also knew I was carrying it with me.

Montreat had wrapped me in something deeper than words: a sense of being

known.

I’m thankful for the laughter—like when we shouted “Era Era!” until the hills

echoed it back. I’m thankful for the quiet moments, too—the ones where

someone held a gaze just a little longer, and you knew your soul had been seen.

To Brayden, Olive, Samuel, Elliot, Lucy, Lily, Shelby, Nina, Nina’s brother, Ellie,

Summer, Grayson, Michael, Adam, Keller, Whit, Whit’s friend who he rode in the

car with, Morgan, Pastor Mary Moore, Mr. Robert, Rev. Leanne, Rev. Leanne’s dog and all the others—each of you stitched yourself into my heart in a way that

isn’t easily undone. You reminded me that friendship isn’t built in grand

gestures, but in shared glances, inside jokes, and the vulnerability of showing

up as your full self.

I’m grateful for the pastors and leaders, the ones who held space for all of us

to just breathe. Pastor Mary Moore, Mr. Robert, Rev. Leanne, Southminster,

every scholarship, every guiding voice—you didn’t just lead us, you let us be.

And that’s what healed us.

But most of all, I’m thankful for Montreat itself.

Because in its mountains and music and sacred silences, I remembered who I

am when the world stops asking me to be someone else.

I left with such peace. With love. With more questions, sure—but also with a

stillness that didn’t feel scary anymore. Just quiet. Just holy.

And now? Now I carry Montreat in my steps. In the way I speak softer. In how I

listen deeper. In how I say goodbye with my whole heart, and how I dream with

my eyes open.

The End