TJ Hirst

The Question: Have I Seen the Hand of God Reaching Out to Touch Us Today?

I hesitate to add something new to my life. I want to believe in it before I commit to it. So I don’t do a lot.

When I commit, though, I commit my whole heart. I’ve been that way with motherhood, marriage, my faith, my education, my assignments at church and in the community and in all my creative projects.

I do a few simple things well and only add when I can manage and maintain or I drop. I love this about me—now—and for that, I give gratitude.

Some others do not. But their reactions to me do not illuminate, so I won’t share.

This summer I received a new responsibility at church. I threw myself into learning—about teenage girls, about communicating, about planning with a purpose and still making it fun, too. (Yes, I can do FUN, despite what some others think or imply.)

Seven weeks later, another change came. I was asked to teach the early morning New Testament religion class five days a week to the high school students at our church.

So only a week before school starts I am reshuffling our morning routine, rearranging my schedule, refocusing my goals and recommitting my attention to what the Lord would have me do, now.

My heart is willing and able. Studying and teaching the scriptures is a blessing. But can I wholly commit, not sacrifice the level of parenting I want to give, and still develop my creative goals? On a revaluation walk, I learned how I can.

And so I now unload the self-induced pressure of daily posting at tjhirst.com. I am taking Saturday’s off. And maybe some days in between when I become a little sleep deprived, you may see “from the archives.” Thank you for reading. With a little time alone, I can continue to illuminate everyday for myself and be able to share it with you.

Open: adj. 1. Not shut or closed. 2. Having no protective or concealingly cover.
3. Spread out; unfolded. 4. Accessible to all. 5. Available; obtainable. 6. Susceptible, Vulnerable.

For my first time on Wordless Wednesday.

Try-It With-Me Tuesday, an interactive weekly time and place to foster connections that challenge and encourage the process to become a well-rounded person.

We awoke to temperatures in the 40’s or 50’s the last few mornings, and the sumac is turning red. Our summer is changing to fall and the children are going back to school. The change of season brings relief from the feeling of always being on the go, but I will miss the summer help from my children and reading Watership Down after lunch, the garden flowers, sleeping in later, and easier routines. This week’s challenge to anyone who wants to try it with me:

Preserve a piece of summer for the future.

I’m making salsa with my children from all those peppers in our garden. Preserving isn’t just about canning vegetables or making jam. To preserve is to maintain or keep intact or prepare for future use.

Take a picture of a flower in your yard or a scene along a walk that you take. Write a journal entry to preserve a memory. Spend an hour with your child talking about what they liked doing this summer. Tell a story from your own childhood.

What are you doing to preserve this summer?

Join in by trying the challenges with me, commenting, linking, or suggesting a challenge. If you want to write a post on your blog about what happened when you took the challenge, I will publish your link. Just link to my website in your post and send me your link. Feel free to use the TIWMT image in your post.

The trail dinners sizzled from their foil when I flipped them on the rack above the open campfire, and I set off to prepare the picnic table for serving. I searched around for the paper grocery bag filled with paper goods. “Has anyone seen the bag of paper goods?” I said.

The kids determined that they had only unloaded three paper bags. I looked desperately at Paul. “Are there any other bags in the car?” He shook his head.

I opened the tailgate and searched for myself; he’s right. Panic set in. Just a little panic—OK, a whole lot of panic. Thinking of eating trail dinners directly off the foil might not be too bad but eating without utensils might be a little too much roughing it. No brown paper bag appeared at the side door either; instead, I found a soft, yellow fabric one—stuffed with rags.

“Why did we bring the rag bag?”

Here we began our camping and biking trip to end a most unusual summer—prepared with enough rags to clean a whole campground but without the basic necessities to get us through our first meal. Although we think we would prefer to hike or canoe into our campsite, this may be why we are still in the car camping stage of family life. Even though we wanted to ignore the town down the road, their local Supervalu saved us from our emergency.

Despite our annoyance at bringing too many of the wrong type of things and not enough of the right ones, the unseasonably cool weather and long afternoon showers, and our impatience with each other, camping together is a quirky way to remind us to be grateful for permanent shelter and personal privacy.

It is the other part of our adventure that pulls us together and prompts these kinds of trips. We love to bike as a family on Minnesota bike trails. We live near the Paul Bunyan State Trail, a paved 100-mile bike trail created from an abandoned rail line, and connect on short rides around the Brainerd Lakes Area.

We explore the rest of the state on longer bike trips. Last weekend, we set up camp in the Norway Beach campgrounds in the Chippewa National Forest near Cass Lake and rode nearly 19 miles on the Migizi Trail. The first ten miles of this trip took us through what is called the Ten Section Area of the Chippewa National Forest, where old growth, large diameter red and white pine trees stand alongside Pike Bay. Their height humbled me; yet, surprisingly, as we rode under their canopies and over the reddish needles, the trees sheltered our family.

Our children’s endurance had obviously grown and except for an unfortunate incident with my bike, we didn’t have to prod each other to keep going until the next stop. In fact, 12 or so miles in, as we rounded the south side of Pike Bay and connected to the Heartland Trail, we were all still able to laugh when we nearly ran into a porcupine in our lane. We stopped for plenty of pictures with him and giggled at his baby-like waddle while he crossed the road.

Even though we saw this up-close look at a porcupine and hidden views of Minnesota forest and lakes, the “fresh-tasting” water at a rest stop on Highway 2 won for the kids’ most talked-over highlight of the ride.

The now-humorous ending to the whole trip came when we again tested our endurance in repacking our gear and bikes and discovered our vehicle had a dead battery.

I say humorous because we couldn’t do anything but laugh at the response from the campground host when we asked for his help to jump start it.

“That’s too dangerous to do with modern-day vehicles,” he said. “I won’t put my car in that kind of jeopardy.”

A neighbor camper next to us offered his big red truck with two batteries for our service, which stopped us all from singing the R.E.M. song, “It’s the end of the world as we know it.”

Certainly the trees will change, strangers will refuse to serve and others will give, but our children, too, will also grow. And while that growth is obvious in their endurance to make bike trips easier, it also means that the canoe trips Paul and I plan for “someday” will be a whole lot lonelier than the simple car camping ones we have now.

I lagged behind on our family bike trip, winded and working hard but never keeping up with the rest. I changed my gears. No help. I handed over the back pack I carried to my husband. No help. I pedaled, pedaled, pedaled and couldn’t even coast on the hills. Something was wrong. I questioned my capacity and my strength.

Paul came up behind me and said, “I know what is wrong, the air in your tire is low. Do you want me to go back to the car and get the pump?”

Go back three miles? No, I didn’t want him to do that. I’d just keep going. So I said, “No, I just want you to stay with me and not leave me behind.”

He rode along with me, but I still slowed us all. Up the trail he spotted a resort sign. “I’m going to see if they have a pump,” he said, and took off down that side trail. He knew I would never make it the 15 more miles without it.

With his help and tires at the right air pressure, my effort turned into enjoyment instead of a struggle.

I asked him, “The contrast is huge. What is the spiritual equivalent to a tire without air?”

He answered with a question, “Are you filling yourself daily with prayer and scripture study or are you going without it?”

“Yes,” I said, “but even when I am doing those things I can feel like I’m still lagging behind and not able to keep up emotionally and spiritually. Like in the summer when it’s so busy and I read and pray but don’t have as much time to truly ponder.”

That’s when I feel flat and don’t even realize it. And so I ask, what is your spiritual equivalent to riding on a tire without air?