And camp has ended again.

Nine Royal Family Kids' Camps, and every camp gets more intense than the last.

I had two seven-year-old girls in my care. One was a Dreamer, paint splatters on her arms and scarves around her neck, a whirlwind of distractions and happy gurgles, but also a victim of night terrors. The other was a gungho baby with a tiny puffy face, eager to be first in any race, but in great need of sayangs and my hand on her brow.

Both girls were too young to play emotional games or be rivals. Both too young to betray their need to be by my side. But young as they may be, they had grown up more than any other 7-year-old in their short lives. Baby was responsible for packing all her belongings up at the end of camp, and ready to protect herself by controlling her tears from spilling out of her frowning eyes. Dreamer had accepted her curse of night terrors and her estranged family situation, explaining them away with gleeful shrugs.

Both girls couldn't take home their stuffed toy presents. I felt bad for giving them stuffed toys because it made them sadder. 

But God was there throughout camp. He made Dreamer stop having nightmares or sleepwalks, He made it sunny all week while the rest of Singapore stormed, and He helped Dreamer understand by Day 5 that she wasn't too busy to cast all her cares upon Him. He made the Bible fascinating to Baby, so that He could tell her through it that she is more precious than the birds and flowers.

I have been through camps watching from a distance, even when I was with the children all the time. I have sailed through on a failproof formula of stickers, surprises and epic presents, and I have loved them. But never before had I depended on God so desperately as when I wanted Dreamer to sleep well. And never had I felt as heartbroken as when I watched Baby will herself not to cry. I cried in front of her, and maybe she knew then that it was okay to be sad and miss each other.

The day after camp ended, I took the train and felt that I had lost my very own children. For the first time I felt I knew how empty their parents must feel, even if they chose to leave their children, and even if they were unfit parents. Wasn't I leaving the children of my own will as well?

I know too that it's not enough to tell the children that they can return next year. It's a small comfort. I can only pray that they will remember the God who answered their prayers all week, and call out to Him again.