The trip to Richmond held as much attraction to me as a frontal lobotomy sans anesthesia. But I had little choice in the matter, which also bothered me to no end. The root of my distaste in this midweek trip could be boiled down to one word – seminar.

More to the point, it was two three-hour training sessions that are required for anyone who wishes to participate as a volunteer at the Comfort Zone camps. I think running my first four marathons on behalf of Comfort Zone was more appealing than sitting in a training seminar for six hours. If I were going to run on behalf of an organization it seemed only logical that I learned as much as possible about it. What better way to learn – and I am not great at learning – than to experience it first-hand.

While I was seeking answers about the camp, I admit to also searching for a renewed sense of purpose and maybe some support that I felt absent from this marathon effort. Truth be told, I also was engaging in a little self-pitying. Was it just me or did no one give a damn about this cause? Not even close friends and family?

The first session was attended by about 20 people, most of whom were born after Reagan was president. Hell, most were embryonic or in diapers during Clinton too. The leader of the seminar was very, very peppy. At first blush, intolerably peppy. We introduced ourselves (sitting in a circle of course) and then went on to an “ice breaker” game that forced us to interact with other volunteers. During the first hour I looked often at the clock and wondered how I might survive.

And then the ice broke. I had looked around the room wondering why the other people were drawn to Comfort Zone. Were they in social services? Did they want class credit – yes, some were that young. Our next “game” was to craft a story about a family in which the father died one day at work. We were asked to create a story line. What did they do in the immediate aftermath, what was their life two weeks later, who came to help out, etc.

It was now clear – people were speaking from experience. They got it, so to speak. The ice had been broken. The second session a day and a half later featured two panels that included kids who had attended camp and another that included people who had been volunteers. They told their stories, talked about what camp was like and what impact the experience had on them.

After hearing from camp “veterans,” my view of the group leader had also changed. My first impression – and admitted aversion – of her peppiness had changed. Yes, she was filled with energy, but it was positive energy. It was joy in her work and in a passion for those in the Comfort Zone community. That is the kind of positive energy that is desperately needed to provide these kids a “bubble” in which they feel free to experience grief. And, more importantly, to experience joy, to laugh, to share and to feel less alone.

The three hours went by quickly and as I rode the cab back to my mom’s apartment the sense of purpose was coming back. When I arrived at the apartment my mom asked if I and Tom would have benefitted from going to a camp like Comfort Zone. Yes, I told her.

And I think I would have. But I did not. More to the point, volunteering at the camp and running these marathons is not about me. It is about what I can do to raise awareness so that other children can reap the reward of going to Comfort Zone. It is not about whether friends and family “support” my efforts. It is about what I can do to support the Comfort Zone and the kids who need an outlet for their grief, who need a weekend to spend with people “who get it.”

I hope and pray that I am able to volunteer as a Big Buddy at a camp this summer, but that is not a choice I can make. The choice I can make is to move forward and tackle the Providence marathon this weekend with purpose and determination.