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You'll love camping!" My husband's eyes glowed. "Did I ever tell you about our Boy Scout Jamboree? We had to catch a chicken and cook it!"

I pictured a thousand starving Boy Scouts chasing one scrawny chicken. "Did you earn your chicken-killing badge?"

"Survival." Steve beamed.

"The poor chicken didn't survive," I pointed out.

I knew I wouldn't, either.

Sure, I cherished church camp memories. But who wanted to sleep in a tent with preschoolers and a crawling baby whose favorite flavor was dirt?

When our Sunday school class planned a campout, Steve lit up like a Coleman lantern. I tried to douse the flame. We owned no camping gear, I argued. Who would cover his solo medical practice? Steve's work allowed little family time and even less couple time. Yet he wanted to waste a precious weekend camping?

I told the love of my life I'd rather do other fun things—like undergo a quadruple bypass. I addressed God's Complaint Department, but no apology ensued. Instead, obstacles disappeared. Other physicians agreed to cover Steve's patients. Someone offered to loan us his entire camping set-up. Worse yet, my prayers brought growing conviction that God saw this camping trip as the catalyst to bond us to each other.

Would I obey Christ or wallow in decadent pleasures such as flush potties and central air?

Finally I told Steve yes. "Only if I don't have to kill any chickens."

The first night matched my worst nightmares. An emergency with a patient delayed our arrival at the campground until dark. The blind leading the blind, we tried to set up the tent. Our girls danced around the campfire like shrieking aborigines. Our baby's dislike for camping matched my own. He informed the entire park of his feelings. All night.

After sparse sleep, I awakened to a dank, drizzly morning and counted the hours until Sunday check-out.

"I'll watch the kids." Steve grabbed a bug before the baby could stuff it into his mouth. "Sleep."

I collapsed—and awakened to sunny skies and a fun afternoon of canoeing with new friends. Our play-weary children hit their sleeping bags early, and we adults sat around a perfect s'mores campfire under glittering stars.

"Okay." I toasted another marshmallow. "So I might have been wrong."  

We started camping regularly. Over the years, it supplied cheap, fun, family time. But Steve and I also found camping played a big part in strengthening our marriage. Here's why.

No plans to conquer the world. No practices, promises, or programs. Surrounded by towering trees and rippling lakes, a couple can drift into timeless mode.

When we're out in nature, Steve and I remember how to play. Did Adam and Eve watch clouds together? Did they draw tic-tac-toe in the dirt with a stick? As we relax, fresh thoughts spring up like green shoots through a forest floor. We even have time to think about each other.

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