Trying to See

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

Speaking of...

Hey blog readers!

I haven’t been writing very much this summer, partly because I am gearing up for some speaking events!  I know I haven’t met many of you, so if you’re interested in attending one of the events below, I really would love to meet you face to face.

Friday, October 3^rd I will be hosting a break-out session at the MEMO/ITEM conference in St. Cloud for media specialists.  I will be speaking from 11:30-12:15.  My session is going to focus on my writing/editing journey and why I chose to self-publish. 

Sunday, October 12^th, I will be speaking at Hope Covenant Church in St. Cloud, MN.  Church starts at 10AM.  They are doing a series on Missional Living.  I’m going to be sharing my story, but I’m also going to dive into the mission I’ve felt called to as a result of writing Walking with Tension.  This event is free and open to everyone.  I will have books for sale that I’d be happy to sign.

Saturday, October 18^th, I will be at The Blessing House in Victoria, MN.  I’m going to share my story of learning to walk with the tension of trusting a God who heals, yet has chosen not to heal me.  I will also be talking about my book.  It looks like they have many great classes; the cost is $25.

Finally, I will be speaking at the undergraduate chapel service at the University of Northwestern on Wednesday, November 19^th as part of their Disability Awareness Week.

If you have an event that you would like me to speak at, I’d love to connect with you!  You can check out some of my speaking topics on my speaking page, or e-mail me at walkingwithtension@gmail.com and we can talk about crafting a talk that works for you!

You can listen to one of the first talks I gave about walking with God and with CP in 2010 at Church of the Open Door along with Steve Wiens on YouTube.

And, if you haven’t yet checked out Walking With Tension, it is available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.  

Joni & Friends 35th Anniversary Blog Contest

Jenny, Ken, Kris, and Joni MN '14

I still remember standing on the green chair in my father’s den, peering onto the top rows of his bookshelf, looking for something to read.  It was 1997.  I was 13, overly self-conscious of my mild cerebral palsy, desperately longing for God to reach out His hand and heal me. 

Joni was sitting on a corner shelf, stacked against a few other titles I didn’t recognize.  Perhaps I was drawn to the fact that a young woman grazed the cover. Maybe I was intrigued by its flowery title whose giant brown letters framed Joni’s face like a window, inviting me to peer back into the 1970s.

My next few days were spent with the world only in my periphery as it peeked out beyond the pages of the book.  Joni wrote with such gripping detail that I too felt as if I had broken my neck in a diving accident and spent my evenings recovering in a Stryker frame. 

It was Joni’s concluding words that gripped me by the throat and wouldn’t let me go:  I’d rather be in this chair knowing him than on my feet without him.

No!  I screamed in my head.  Isn’t there a third option!?  Can’t I love Jesus AND be healed?  I scanned the pages of her book in torment before I threw it under my bed.  Days later I placed in into a brown paper bag and carried it to the trash.

*             *             *

In 2012, I arrived at a Joni and Friends Family Retreat held at Castaway Club in Detroit Lakes, MN.  (Learn about family retreats and more at http://www.joniandfriends.org/) After much deliberation, I had accepted the invitation to volunteer as a short-term missionary (STM) for the week. 

I was simply overwhelmed.

I found myself in the bathroom one afternoon only to realize that the woman in the stall next to me was changing the diapers of her adult son.

I witnessed a middle-aged woman tend to her two adult sons with severe disabilities by herself because her husband had died of cancer that winter.

I wondered about the man seated in front of me each morning in the chapel.  Why didn’t he have a power wheelchair like everyone else?

Everyone seemed so happy during our nightly volunteer debriefing.  They were smiling and celebrating the precious connections they had made with their campers throughout the day…I wanted to grieve.

Then one day in small group, I looked across the room to witness a man who was crying.  Finally! There’s someone around here who is keeping it real. I thought to myself.

 

“Are you crying because of all you have lost due to your disability?” The STMs around him asked. The man signed “Yes,” and the volunteers began to weep.  The next day, he was introduced to the rest of us.

“This is Kris.  Kris was in a car accident.  He can’t talk with his mouth so he signs with his good hand one letter at a time.  1 is for yes and 2 fingers are for no.  Even though he can’t talk he still thinks like a typical adult.”

Upon hearing these words, I had one of those rare moments in life when I looked at Kris and saw years ahead.  My heart was broken for him, but at the same time, I just wanted to sit beside him and eat pizza together.  I wanted so desperately to go over to his house, sit by his chair, and watch him sign hour after hour until we learned how to communicate.

 

After a few exchanges on Facebook following camp, Kris asked me a simple question, “Do you like pizza?”

 

And so began our friendship.

The last two years have been beautiful and hard.  Learning how to interact with someone who is non-verbal is challenging, but within our conversations I have learned what a gift it is to simply be with another person, that so much can be accomplished and communicated simply by holding another’s hand.  Dallas Theological Seminary professor Dr. Victor Anderson was right when he said:

A ministry of friendship [to people with disabilities] does not depend on a vast biblical knowledge or refined pastoral technique.  Rather it displays loyal love to an individual and a family, modeled after the love God has shown to his broken people. Relational needs are seldom met with an occasional contact.  Family fragmentation may be irreparable, and feelings of aloneness that are controlled in one hour may be ferociously unleashed in the next.  Yet true friendship serves as a balm repeatedly applied and rubbed deep into the soul.

*                                     *                             *

Volunteering as an STM at Joni and Friends Family retreat has changed my life.  It has impacted the mail I receive, the books I read, and how I spend my money.  It has sparked a greater awareness in me to those in my immediate community who have been impacted by disability.  It has caused me to ask deep questions about the role churches can play in reaching out to those who are disabled and to wonder about the spiritual formation process that occurs within a person who suffers.

So much has changed since that day I threw a vintage copy of Joni in the trash.  This summer, Joni visited Minnesota’s Family retreat where Kris and I got to meet her.  Of all the things I said to Joni throughout this special week, the ones that kept falling most often from my lips were, “Thank you!” 

_________________ 

Jenny Hill is an elementary school library media specialist and the author of Walking with Tension a book about her walk with God and with cerebral palsy.  She is currently pursuing her doctorate at Bethel University where Joni visited this March.  Jenny regularly blogs about faith and disability at walkingwithtension.com  

Reference

Anderson, V. D. (2011).  Pastoral care and disability.  In L. J. Waters & R. B. Zuck (Eds.), Why o God?  Suffering and disability in the Bible and the church (pp. 231-243).  Wheaton, IL: Crossway.

The story of Kris was shared with permission.

Look Deep Into Nature

Dear Readers,

Our neighbors at the lake have this quote from Einstein painted on the back of their shed:

It's true, isn't it?  Something clears your mind when you look out at the waves roaring across the lake.  Your soul seems to brighten when you have the chance to let the sun shine down on you during a walk outside.  Your day changes when you have the chance to put down you cell phone and pick up a book to read in the hammock.

I took a break last summer from blogging and it did me some good.  Living life, staring deep into nature itself, produced some really good writing.  If you are new to my blog, here are a few entries from the last nine months that I suggest reading:

The Wailing Woman
How Do you Envision Heaven?
Man of Sorrows

It's been a busy writing year! On March 26th, I launched my book, Walking with Tension, chronicling my journey with God and with cerebral palsy.  Many have told me they cannot put it down.  A few have asked for a sequel.  If you're looking for a summer read, you can purchase it on Amazon for cheap!

I hope you have a wonderful summer!  If you happen to read Walking with Tension  in the coming months, I would love to hear from you!  Send me an e-mail at walkingwithtension@gmail.com or write a review on Amazon.  I look forward to posting again in September!

With Gratitude,
Jenny

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Happy Summer!

christinehillcards.com

He changes times and seasons; he deposes kings and raises up others. He gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to the discerning.  Daniel 2:21

I walked into the office this afternoon to find a first grade boy wearing a paper headband and smiling. 

“Why are you wearing a headband?”  I asked.

“I was in a play!”  He said; his eyes swallowed up by his grin.

“What was your play about?” I asked with curiosity.

“It was about a king who had to decide what season was best!”

“What did he decide?”

“In the end, he decided that all seasons have their place in their time.”

This winter was ugly.  It did something piercing to my soul.  Precious plans were cancelled much to my disappointment.  Howling wind made my house shake.  My fireplace had to stay on far too long and it seemed to bring little comfort.  I found myself in the depths of seasonal depression sobbing on my floor. I still have haunting memories of eating disgusting leftovers out of my fridge on days where school was cancelled for days on end.

It was a season of saying unexpected goodbyes.  One close friend let me know of his resignation.  While I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, someone who’s been in my life for over a decade announced her retirement and another decided to move out of state.  All of this has left my head spinning, my heart heavy, and my eyes full of tears.

It was also a season of firsts.

Come on, who has ever heard of a polar vortex before now?  Suddenly, it’s become part of the meteorologist vernacular.

It’s the first time ever I’ve seriously wondered why in my 18 years living in my parent’s household they never thought of packing up our family and moving to someplace warm.  The Hills have been here for generations.  I don’t get it.

I also don’t get long range forecasts.  I studied them this winter like the Bible.  When was the sun coming?  On the first of Never.

Is winter really beautiful?  Do all seasons really have their place?

I started to feel a little better as Daylight Savings Time approached, but it wasn’t until this weekend that I began to really come alive.

My parents own a cabin in Nisswa, MN and I have great hopes that heaven will be something like it.  It’s on a little lake with the sweetest next door neighbors you’ve ever met.  It’s a quaint little cabin, nothing too fancy, but that in itself is an invitation to remember:

·         You really can put down your e-mail and work for a weekend and exchange it for a to-do list that includes napping and reading for fun.

·         There are days when time doesn’t matter except that it is 5:00 somewhere.

·         The best dinner is a burger on the grill and ice cream afterwards at The Chocolate Ox.

·         There’s more to hear in the background of your life than the grrr of a snowplow or your neighbor’s barking dogs:  you can go to sleep serenaded by the spring peepers and wake up to a chorus of birds.

·         Summertime and sunshine do exist.  Light can bathe your skin with warmth that fills you with hope—for once the Vitamin D pills can be left alone.  Your workout can take place outside.  Your body can sweat as it moves through the fresh air.

·         Family is precious.  Watching the next generation of little Hills spend the whole day in their swimming suits enchanted by the lake is a sight to behold: giggles at the feel of a flopping minnow in their hands, smiles spread wide across their faces while going for a boat ride with Grandpa, and bending down low off the dock to fill their buckets with enough water to make a sand castle. 

·         Evenings can be filled with bonfires and stories.  After the kids go to bed the adults can sit up and snack while playing cards.  We can crack jokes, make memories, and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Maybe the first grader I ran into today in the office was right.  Every season does have its place in its time.  I don’t like our winters.  But this one, as particularly painful as it was, made me grateful for the summer days that lie ahead.  Happy Summer everyone!

My Presence Will Go With You and I Will Give You Rest

Last week I made mention of a scene in Exodus where Moses talked to God face to face like a man talks with his friend.  I’m so grateful that this very personal, human moment is included in the Bible.  It gives us a hopeful picture of the kind of close relationship we can have with God.  I’ve been reading forward a few verses this week:  Moses says some honest things to God; mostly that he’s finding himself leading people around in the wilderness and is in need of help.  God’s response to him is filled with two things I just love:

“My presence will go with you.”

“I will give you rest.”

I have to tell you, as a single woman who wrestles with fatigue, there’s really only two things I need to know most days:

·         I am not alone in life.

·         There’s a strong possibility of a nap in the near future.

I’ve also been thinking lately that perhaps His presence going with me is a truth that sometimes I appreciate more than the gift of His rest.

I’ve been training three days a week since early March for a5K.  I diligently stretch before and after each workout to prevent injury and soreness.  I’ve been taking the program twice as slow as prescribed.  I’ve steadily progressed forward each day; my body quietly whispering its “thank you” afterwards because my heart enjoys beating fast and my mind appreciates being cleared out. 

It’s also been a bit of a negotiated struggle.  I am face to face with my physical limitations as I move around the track and I must acknowledge and accommodate for them without letting them overtake me.  It’s a delicate dance: 1 step forward: “I can do this,” two steps back:  “My tight left hamstring is making this so hard.”  Even in the midst of this tricky tango I press on because amidst my stubborn determination and encouraging crowd of friends I also know God that is with me, bringing me His sustenance and breath.  He goes with me every step of the way. 

Then one morning, I woke up and found my right ankle was in pain.  I couldn’t recover just going about my daily life at its normal pace, so eventually I called my doctor.

Her prescription: Rest.

And so, for nearly the past two weeks; I haven’t been jogging.  I’ve been coming home and sitting on my couch, ankle elevated, ice wrapped around, ibuprofen in my tummy…waiting as my body heals. 

The first day this happened, I was in tears.  Why did I even try to do this!?  Why do I ever try to do anything!?  This was already a challenging goal and now this happened!!  I felt defeated and sad and contained.

Rest has an amazing ability to give us perspective.  As I sat on the couch this weekend I began to think about how spiritual life often mirrors this injury.  We can run hard and fast after good things, carefully doing everything “right” and suddenly find ourselves surprised by pain. It is in these moments that we must learn to stop and rest and wait and listen until it's time to go again; perhaps our pain is a signal to seek some help and make a few changes.  This kind of stopping interrupts your life and makes you change the order of things as you reflect and listen and gain perspective.  It's a discipline that doesn't come without cost, but may we be willing to pay the price!  And, what a better course we will continue on because of it!

When is the last time you stopped and pondered God’s overwhelming outpouring of love for you?  Have you sat still long enough lately to hear Him whisper?  Beth Moore said in a message that “Many of you have not experienced the tenderness of God because you have not let Him tend to you.  Tending takes time.”

So, this week if you find yourself in pain from all of your running, sit down, put your feet up.  Remember that the God who goes with you is also the One who gives you rest.

The Friendship of God

 “Who brought you to Jesus?”

A few weeks ago my pastor stood on stage as he posed this question.

I found myself in a reflective mood, scribbling notes on the back of my bulletin with my royal blue Sharpie.  The thing is…I have no dramatic salvation story.

There was no compelling sermon, alter call, or recitation of The Sinner’s Prayer.  Yes, I have wonderful parents who loved me, prayed for me, and brought me to church.  I had great Sunday school teachers who taught me the Word of God. 

But for me, that wasn’t how it happened.  In fact, I’ve never met the two songwriters who brought me to Jesus; I’ve just stared at their picture on the back of their songbook, thanked God for them, and imagined myself shaking their hands in heaven, grateful for the work they’ve done on earth.

I used to spend hours as a kid in my bedroom.  And, because I was a child of the ‘80s, I would lie in front of my cassette player and listen to music, Christian music, over and over again.  There was one cassette, “Wee Sing Bible Songs,” that had taken scripture and put it to music.  One of those verses was Revelation 3:20.  This song boldly spoke of Jesus, someone who was knocking at the door, wanting to come in. 

So, one day, I stood at the threshold of my bedroom door, looking out in the hallway, and simply said, “Jesus, you can come in.”  In that moment, I just wanted Jesus to be my friend, to come into my room and play with me along with my stuffed animals, my books, and my music; To jump on my bed, to know about my life, to listen to my prayers.

I think Moses must have experienced this type of relationship when he went into the Tent of Meeting and talked to God face to face, like a friend, using plain, honest language, just like I did standing at my door all those years ago.  My heart aches for the rest of the Hebrews who had to stand at their own tents outside, uninvited, longing for that kind of friendship as they worshiped God.

I don’t know how old I was the day I asked Jesus to come into my life to be my friend, but I do remember so many beautiful moments that came afterwards…all those nights when I would lie in bed at four, legs pinned in place, completely immobilized, entombed in a white body cast while I recovered from an operation which improved my gait.  I’d sing all those songs to Jesus from my tapes as I fell asleep.

I remember in first grade being so lonely and without friends, walking down the hallway at Pinewood Elementary, spilling my heart out without mouthing a word, and realizing in that moment, God’s comforting presence and ongoing desire to be my friend. 

As an adult too, on my first day of college as a doctoral student, I walked down the steps in my own home, nervous and scared, crying out to God like a kid, “I need you to hold my hand today!”  I shook all the way to St. Paul, but when I found the courage to get out of my car and walk into the door, I was immediately greeted by someone who recognized me from church, and was going to teach my first class.  Then I exhaled, so grateful that God was meeting me once again at the threshold of another door. 

There are moments though, when I haven’t wanted to open my door, and walk out into the world.  The anticipation of the people and situations I’m about to encounter seem overwhelming, and I’m not always sure that I have something to offer that’s of any value.  It’s in those scary moments that I hear His gentle whisper, “I’m right here Jenny, I’m right here.”  The kindness in those moments almost brings me to tears, because I remember the decades of His constant friendship, and together we go through the door and out into the world.

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