The Death of a Pastor

The death of Pastor Jack Hill makes me more lonesome than ever. He was such a part of my parent's lives that he seemed more like a family member. My dad climbed the buttes and rimrocks of the Cave Hills with him and another friend, Ted Seppala. They carried sticks, binoculars and cameras.

I wonder what their conversations were about. Surely they commented about the Indian Dance Ring to the SE of McKinsey Butte, and how the Indians caught eagles in their rock traps baited with a live rabbit; actually it was catch and release for them as all they wanted were a few good feathers; did they remark about the ancient and more modern petroglyphs on the sandstone walls? I wonder if there was any 'God' talk? They were men of deep faith, all three of them. They loved the out of doors and the high plains.

He was my mother's confidant and spiritual advisor. He helped her bear the sad realities of life. He wrote me wonderful letters regarding the book on my dad and just this past month about the 'Sisu' book. He complimented me on some of my poetry. His life was cut too short.

He was a wonderful preacher, writer, pastor, encourager, friend. I was blessed just to have known Pastor Jack Hill, and my parents were blessed to be able to call him their pastor, their friend.