Camping has changed.

We used to call it camping when we threw a questionable tent in the back of the car, grabbed a cast-iron skillet, packed some hot dogs, Cheetos, tea, soda, maybe a few potatoes, and hoped somebody actually caught a fish.

Usually nobody caught much.

That was fine. We had hot dogs.

The tent may or may not have survived the night. The ground was the bed. If it rained, you learned quickly which corner of the tent leaked. If it got cold, you put on another shirt. If it got hot, you waited for the sun to go down.

A firepit was a hole in the ground.

We dug it.

We burned logs in it.

Done.

Now we have battery banks, solar panels, tent air conditioners, tent heaters, raised bed frames, memory foam, rechargeable lanterns, and enough electrical equipment to establish a small field hospital.

And yes, I have some of that stuff too.

Apparently, I no longer go camping.

I establish a temporary off-grid residential complex.

But somewhere in all that gear, I started thinking about what we used to call camping.

And then I remembered there were times growing up when life did not look much different.

Except nobody called it camping.

There was a time when we were without electricity for weeks.

We cooked outside.

We hauled water.

We slept with the windows open, which was pretty normal back then anyway. If it got too hot, we went to somebody else’s house. If it got too cold, same thing.

We ate hot dogs.

We fried taters.

Good grief, we ate a lot of hot dogs and fried taters.

Looking back, somebody could call that deprivation.

We did not.

It was simply what life looked like at the time.

Maybe part of the reason it did not feel like deprivation was because somebody usually had something we needed.

A neighbor had water.

A friend had electricity.

Somebody had food.

Somebody had room.

Somebody had a cooler house.

Somebody had a warmer house.

Nobody needed a committee meeting.

They just asked:

What do you need?

That question has been rattling around in my head lately.

Not:

How did you get yourself into this?

Not:

Whose fault is it?

Not:

Do you qualify?

Just:

What do you need?

Maybe a family’s electricity has been shut off.

I have a spare room.

I have cots.

You may have to share some space with the kids.

We got this.

I may even fire up some hot dogs and fried taters.

Then, once everybody has eaten and settled down, Mom, Dad, and I can sit at the table and talk.

What do you need?

Maybe the answer is simple.

Maybe the electric bill needs to be paid.

Maybe there is a reconnection fee.

Maybe that is all standing between a family and getting back on its feet.

If I can pay it, maybe I do.

No strings attached.

The only thing I have ever asked is this:

When you can, pay it forward.

Not back.

Forward.

I do not need repayment.

I do not need recognition.

I do not need somebody remembering my name ten years from now.

But someday that family may meet somebody else who is having a hard time.

Maybe they buy groceries.

Maybe they pay a utility bill.

Maybe they give somebody a ride.

Maybe they have a spare room.

Maybe they own a couple of cots.

And maybe one evening they find themselves standing at somebody else’s door saying:

We got this.

That may be how communities rebuild.

Not through some grand announcement.

Not because everybody suddenly agrees about everything.

Not because somebody develops the perfect program.

Maybe we rebuild by noticing.

One neighbor at a time.

One meal.

One bill.

One ride.

One cot.

One question.

What do you need?

We used to call it camping when we chose to live with less for a few days.

Sometimes life chooses that for us.

When it does, maybe the most important thing is knowing somebody nearby is willing to make room around the fire.