I grew up in a close-knit Christian family, where faith and community were woven into the fabric of our daily lives. Every summer, our church would host a week-long camp nestled in the countryside, a place that seemed to exist outside of time. The camp was a patchwork of laughter, worship, and the kind of friendships that only childhood can forge. There were morning prayers under the open sky, afternoons filled with games and crafts, and evenings spent around a crackling campfire, singing hymns and sharing stories. It was a place where the air always smelled of pine needles and sun-warmed grass, and where the days seemed to stretch on forever.
That particular summer, both my parents were caught up in work commitments they simply couldn’t avoid. The news that they wouldn’t be able to attend camp with me hit me hard. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, clutching my pillow, feeling a deep ache of disappointment. Camp had always been our special time together—a week where the outside world faded away and it was just us, surrounded by friends and faith.
But then, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, my parents’ friend Georgina stepped in. Everyone at church called her Auntie Georgina, and she was the kind of woman who made every child feel safe and seen. Her eldest daughter had babysat me countless times, and their family felt almost like an extension of my own. When Auntie Georgina offered to take me along with her two girls, my parents were visibly relieved, and I felt a flicker of excitement return.
Auntie Georgina assured my parents that I could travel with them, and that I’d have my own little tent pitched right next to their summer house on the campgrounds. Meals would be shared at their table, and I’d be included in all their family activities. My parents gratefully accepted, and I could see in their eyes a mixture of gratitude and hope that I’d be well cared for.
On the morning of departure, my mom knelt down to my level, her hands gently smoothing my hair. She reminded me to be on my best behavior for Auntie Gege, her voice soft but firm. Then, in a tone that was both serious and loving, she told me that Auntie Georgina had her full permission to discipline me if necessary—even to spank me if I stepped out of line. I nodded, feeling a strange mix of reassurance and nervousness settle in my stomach.
The drive to camp took two hours, winding through rolling hills and sleepy villages. I sat in the backseat with Auntie Georgina’s daughters, the car filled with the scent of packed lunches and the sound of our excited chatter. When we finally arrived, the campgrounds were alive with the shouts and laughter of children. Tents dotted the grassy fields, and the air buzzed with anticipation. Auntie Georgina and her youngest daughter went off to prepare lunch, while her eldest helped me set up my tent. My friends from previous years gathered around, wide-eyed with envy at my “private” tent. After some negotiation, it was decided that two of my closest friends would join me for the week, and we immediately set about making the space our own, stringing up makeshift decorations and giggling late into the night.
The days that followed were a blur of fun and freedom. We played tag until our legs ached, whispered secrets under the stars, and reveled in the sense of independence that came with having our own tent. But with that freedom came a certain wildness. Our laughter often grew too loud, our games too rowdy. By the second day, complaints about our behavior had reached Auntie Georgina. She listened patiently, but I could see the concern in her eyes.
That afternoon, after the club meeting, I returned to find my tent in disarray. Auntie Georgina’s eldest daughter stood nearby, her expression serious. She told me the tent had to come down, and instructed me to follow her. My heart pounded as we walked to where Auntie Georgina waited in her car, her face set in a look I knew all too well. The drive back to the summer house was silent except for her gentle but firm scolding, each word heavy with disappointment. I felt a knot of guilt tighten in my chest.
When we arrived, my tent was reassembled, but this time it was pitched right next to the summer house, under Auntie Georgina’s watchful eye. The message was clear: my freedom had boundaries, and I had crossed them. We ate lunch together, but the usual warmth was tinged with a quiet tension.
After lunch, Auntie Georgina called me into her bedroom. The room was cool and dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. She sat me down and spoke to me with a seriousness I rarely saw. She explained why my behavior had been unacceptable, her words both stern and caring. Then she told me I would be punished with a spanking. That afternoon, we were supposed to visit a small farm—a place I’d been looking forward to, with its jumble of animals and a bright, inflatable bouncy castle. Auntie Georgina gave me a choice: take my punishment now, or wait until bedtime. The thought of exploring the farm with a sore bottom was unbearable, so I chose to wait, though the dread of what was to come hung over me like a shadow.
The visit to the farm was a welcome distraction. I lost myself in the joy of feeding goats, petting rabbits, and bouncing until I was breathless. For a few hours, I almost forgot about the punishment that awaited me. After dinner, we gathered in the living room, the glow of the television casting soft shadows as we watched cartoons together. But as the clock struck nine, Auntie Georgina’s voice cut through the comfort: it was my bedtime. My heart sank as I changed into my nightie and brushed my teeth, the familiar routine now tinged with anxiety.
Auntie Georgina took my hand and led me back to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed, pulling me close. Her voice was gentle but unwavering as she said, “Sarah, you have been a good girl for me this afternoon and I hope you continue to be a good girl. However, I cannot overlook your previous misbehaviour. I promised you a good spanking, and that is now what you are going to get.” Her words stung, but there was love in her eyes—a love that made the punishment feel both inevitable and, in a strange way, reassuring.
She took me by the wrist and guided me over her lap—a position I knew well from past misadventures. I could feel her hand resting on my bottom, steady and warm, as she made sure everything was in order. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. Then, without further warning, she began. Each smack landed with a sharp sting, the pain building with every blow. By the fifth, tears were already streaming down my face; by the tenth, I was sobbing openly, the sound muffled by the bedspread. She delivered twenty-four smacks in total, each one a reminder of the boundaries I had crossed.
When it was over, I lay draped across her lap, my body wracked with sobs. The pain was sharp, but it was the shame and regret that hurt the most. Auntie Georgina didn’t rush me. She let me cry until the worst of it had passed, her hand gently rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles. In that moment, I felt both chastened and comforted, as if the punishment had somehow cleansed me of my guilt.
When my crying had softened to quiet sniffles, Auntie Georgina helped me to my feet and wrapped me in a warm embrace. She told me she loved me very much, and that the spanking was given out of care, not anger. Her words settled over me like a blanket, easing the sting of both body and spirit. She walked me out to my tent in the garden, the night air cool against my tear-streaked cheeks. I crawled into my sleeping bag, lying on my tummy to avoid the lingering pain, and let the events of the day wash over me. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt a strange sense of peace—a mixture of sorrow, forgiveness, and the knowledge that I was loved, even when I made mistakes.
