My dad recently wrote an eclectic devotional called Trying to See. I read it on Saturday in one sitting. The beautiful thing about this book is that you can read it fast, but then you can read it again slowly, savoring each story. It's a book about seeing God in everyday life through short stories, prayers, and commentary. It's charming, heart-felt, and thought-provoking. Enjoy the first chapter printed below and then hop over to Amazon to read the rest.
243897
On a summer day when the sun is on high
beam and the breezes
are
welcome caresses, Lake Superior is a visual and sensory force.
The
water is so rare a blue that a proper adjective cannot be found
to
describe it. If you are standing along Duluth’s high ridge you can
see
the sweeping curve of the earth and watch the thousand-foot
ore
carriers fall off the edge. From Park Point looking back toward
the
city, black hulled, high mast sailboats skim the surface and large
cruisers
manned by happy faces come and go at the marina. You’d
swear
you were looking at a village planted on a steep hillside along
the
Mediterranean. Wading in forty-degree water however, quickly
cools
off that illusion. If you’re in a boat a few miles off shore, a
penetrating,
primordial awareness overwhelms a person. It is an
awareness
of the unbelievable enormity of the earth and its largest
fresh
water ocean.
When my children were still living at home
we’d try to get up
there
as many summers as we could. Duluth meant fun places to
eat
and hanging out at the lift bridge. There, we could watch giant
ships
from all over the world squeeze through the narrow canal,
their
rotating radar scanners barely slipping under the raised deck of
the
iconic bridge. Many of the crew would be out on deck waving a
happy
hello to the crowds pressing on the rail.
We also enjoyed the train ride. The city
runs an open-air train
made
of passenger cars with no walls or windows. You sit on
simple
wood benches situated perpendicular to the sides of the car
so
you can face each other and still look out in both directions. The
train
creeps its way from the waterfront up to the high ridge of the
city
and on through to the northeastern outskirts of town.
On one such excursion two elderly ladies
sat down across from
the
four of us. They were both short and slight. They moved
slowly
but were not frail. They boarded arm and arm and remained
that
way. Their silver hair was professionally done and their make-up was
just
so. They wore stylish clothing and each one was adorned with earrings,
bracelets,
and wedding rings with diamonds that were not bought at the mall.
One
couldn’t help but assume they were sisters.
As the train crawled along, they started
commenting to one
another
about what they were seeing. Occasionally, they would slip
into
an unfamiliar language and almost whisper to each other. Their
enjoyment
of the vistas of the crystal blue sea was obvious.
After ten minutes or so, one of the ladies
turned her attention to
us
and asked, “Are you locals?”
“Yes we are.”
“We’ve heard about a place called
Palisades Head and wondered
if
it was worth the trip further up the north shore?”
“It is spectacular and worth the drive.” I
assured them.
Their query opened the door for some
informal introductions.
Their
names were Hattie and Lillian. An easy comfortableness
settled
in on the six of us, and we carried on with a light friendly
conversation.
For the first time since we met them they unclasped
their arms and created a slight space between
themselves on the bench.
Hattie’s
sleeves were three quarters length. As she and Lillian
adjusted
their seating and unlocked arms her inner forearm became
visible
exposing something that looked like a tattoo scar. It was old
and
small. Hattie noticed that we noticed. She wasn’t offended. She
actually
leaned forward, held out her arm and gave us a closer look.
It was a number: 243897.
It happened that at this time, my daughter
was going through a
period
in her early middle school education where she was studying
all
things Nazi, Jewish, and WWII. She had read Ann Frank,
Number
the Stars, and anything about Corrie ten Boom. She knew
before
the rest of us what the numbers on Hattie’s arm meant. She
immediately
crossed the aisle and sat next to her. Hattie gently
clasped
my daughter’s hand and gave her a little squeeze and allowed
her to slowly graze her index finger over
the numbers. She then
wrapped
her arm around my daughter’s so now they were ones who
were
arm and arm.
“We were about your age.” Hattie said,
breaking the silence.
“We met at Majdanek.”
She motioned to Lillian. Lillian slid up
her sleeve just enough to
reveal
her scar also. The numbers were not as clear as Hattie’s, but
there
was no mistaking them for anything else.
The ladies went on to tell a
heart-wrenching story of terror,
brutality,
loss…and survival.
“Majdanek started out as a factory camp
and eventually morphed
into
an extermination camp,” she explained. “It was a place where
nostril violating stench and chimneys
blackened by unholy fires
provided
unrelenting daily torment. By some miracle we both
remained sane. We first noticed each other
in a food line. Our
mothers,
fathers, brothers, and sisters were all gone. We became
inseparable.”
“That is why we survived.” Lillian added.
Hattie continued.
“One
night we heard gunfire and shouting, followed by big
explosions in the distance. The Germans fled
the camp. By morning
the
gates were unguarded, yet none of us left. We were emaciated
and
pale. We didn’t have enough strength to walk anywhere anyway.
We
all stood silently at the edge of the fences, staring into the
distance,
waiting for we knew not what. The Allies came the next
afternoon.
We didn’t know who they were, or why they were there.
But
we knew they weren’t the Nazis.”
Then Lillian recounted an unshakable
memory.
“There was a tall man in a brown uniform.
He broke off a piece
of
bread and held it out for me. When I reached through the fence
to take it I looked up. I still remember the
officer’s eyes, vividly.
They
were as exhausted as mine and he was crying.”
Hattie knew of an uncle who had immigrated
to America before
the
hostilities broke out in Europe. The uncle took both girls in
and
raised them as sisters until adulthood. They grew, married,
had
families, and lived full lives. They never lost contact with each
other.
Now in their twilight years they were both widows. Hattie
lived
in California and Lillian in Manitoba. For the last twelve or so
summers
they would pick a city in the U.S. to vacation together. The
city
had to have a university and be close to natural wonders. Had
to
have a university because they would audit a class during their
visit.
As Hattie put it, “We need to keep learning new things to stay
sharp.”
Natural wonders because, “Who wants to sit in a classroom
all
day?”
All too soon the train was pulling back
into the station. My
family’s
little ten-mile tourist ride had become much more than
merely
taking in the views. We’d been transported back in time to
Eastern
Europe with two young, Jewish orphan girls.
My daughter and Hattie were still arm and
arm. She told Hattie
about
the books she had been reading and a movie she’d seen.
“When I think about all that stuff I have
trouble believing there
is
a God.”
Hattie squeezed her arm a little tighter
and leaned in. “There has
to
be a God my dear.”
“Why?”
“Because we can still love.”
“We
love because He first loved us.”
1
John 4:19
