This Rainbow's gold: hope

Paints and markers at hand, the 9- to 12-year-olds stake out the cabin making art projects. Out in the field, the littlest kids run through a chain of fists clasped tight in a game of Red Rover while deep in the shade of nearby woods the teenagers laugh and shout their way though a “Survivor”-style obstacle course.

At night, they meet up with bunkmates and snuggle into sleeping bags, many for the first time away from home.

At 7 a.m. sharp, reveille plays over a bullhorn. Later there will be swimming.

It’s every memory ever included in any sepia-toned scrapbook devoted to camp.

But for these nearly 80 Lee County children, it also is therapy.

At Camp Rainbow Trails, each camper has had a family member die within the past year. A mom. A dad. A sister. An uncle.

Some were able to say goodbye. Many didn’t have the chance.

This weekend at a Sylvan campground just across the Hendry County line near Alva, they will write letters to their loved ones and plant them in the ground, along with a new tree.

The masks they craft show the difference between how they feel on the inside and the face they show the world. A childhood game gives them a hand to hold. A challenge in the woods teaches them even what seems insurmountable can be overcome, with trust and friends.

Away from parents, cell phones and electronic distractions, the group can talk about their feelings with other kids who have had similar losses, said Bill Enslen, camp director at vice president of bereavement services at Hope Hospice, which annually hosts the children at no cost to their families.

In three days there, grieving children have a chance to make progress that would take three to six months anywhere else, he said.

“Here it’s OK to cry,” Enslen said. “Everyone does. It’s an OK thing.”

There is time for that, yes, but also for giggling and card tricks and banana splits.

That’s the point of Rainbow Trails, Enslen said. Created in 1989, it fills the gap between the way adults and children deal with loss.

“It’s not that they don’t grieve; they grieve differently,” Enslen said of kids.

For every three children at the camp, there is one camp counselor. Licensed bereavement counselors lead activities meant to be fun but also give kids insight into loss.

Inside one of the camp’s cabins, children sit in a semicircle at a table near a large mirror. Drawing inspiration from a scene in the Harry Potter series where the title character looks into a reflection to see his heart’s desire, counselors ask them to sketch what they would want to see there.

“Can I use words?” asks 10-year-old Juan Diaz.

Given the go-ahead, he carefully prints that he wants most to see his dad.

He died last year, Diaz explains.

A grief counselor suggested the camp, he said, admitting he was nervous at first about taking the trip.

“Until I met Justin, David and Matthew,” he says, pointing out new friends at the table. “I’m OK with it now. It’s good to talk to someone else (who is grieving).”

Justin Vandernorth, 9, sits nearby, drawing a picture of his uncle.

Outside, his cousins, Kalie Vandernorth, 8, and her brother, Eddie, 6, line up for Red Rover.

Kalie’s been talking about her dad at camp and about how he died.

He was 28, she says. He had a heart problem. They thought he was getting better, she adds simply.

A lion hangs around her neck. She says it is for courage.

Like the older kids, the youngest group, ages 6 to 8, have been working on art projects, too.

Sophia Guerin, 7, decorated hers with flowers and stars, just like her older sister used to like to doodle.

“She drew pretty hearts that looked like this,” it reads. “Her name was Rachel.”

Rachel Hooppaw, 16, an honor student and athlete at Riverdale High School, drowned in August.

Hope Hospice works with the Lee County School District and local law enforcement agencies to reach children who need the respite, Enslen said.

At school, each might be the only person who has ever suffered a loss, he said. At camp, they aren’t the only kids to have been to a funeral, or whose mom or dad is gone. They’re normal.

That’s exactly what Sierra Tallar, 14, wants.

After her older sister died earlier this year in a car accident, she didn’t like it when people started to act strangely around her, she said.

Camp isn’t like that, she said.

“They all know what you’re going through,” Tallar said. “You know you’re not the only one feeling different.”

At Rainbow Trails, she’s learning things can be hard, but that she shouldn’t give up, that people working together can find a solution, she said.

In a clearing in the woods, rope strung to nearby trees is spun into a spider web. Each of the teenage campers must go through one of the holes with the help of the rest of the team, but no opening can be used twice. Smaller campers will need to be lifted up. Older ones need to make sure everyone is able to get through.

“We’re going to put you through that opening there,” Tallar says to one. “And we’re going to put you through there.”

Then, only she and one teammate are left.

“You won’t be able to lift me up,” Taller says.

“Yes I will,” her teammate responds, picking up the lithe teen and slipping her deftly through one of two available openings, then stepping to the other side herself.

Then it’s on to face the next challenge, together.