That Hill
Written by an Image Bearer of the Living God.
We walked the course before each race. It was a team thing. Team, plus one – the one being my dad.
Each Saturday morning, early out and together, we covered the entire 3.1 miles. We learned the narrow places and the widths. We noted each snarled root that snaked above the ground, each ankle-twisting hole, each hedge apple tree that dotted the course with bright green fruit. We studied the mown paths, the painted orange arrows, the repeating loops. Here, a place to conserve energy. There, a place to run wide open. Ah, a nice downhill. Catch some runners if you can.
Dad took note, too. He wasn’t part of the coaching staff. He wasn’t a former marathon runner. And he wasn’t one of those fathers who pushed and demanded sports excellence at every single event. His sport in high school was football, not cross-country. But when I started running in junior high and continued through high school, he was right there with me.
Dad was there in the predawn darkness, running beside me on our country road, each of us with a flashlight designed more to catch the eyeshine of a coyote or the attention of a still-sleepy farmer, than to illuminate the road. We knew where we were going.
Dad was there at community 5k events. We ran for hunger every November for six years and had the t-shirts to prove it. He always beat my time. Though he completed the race before I did, he was the man who crossed the finish line, then always turned back to help me cross it, too.
Dad was there in rain, shine, snow.
Even at That Hill.
Not everyone reached That Hill. It was reserved for those who competed and scored high enough during each high school season to qualify for the state cross-country meet. Back in the day, not everyone received a ribbon or a trophy. Only those who took the most ground in the least time were the winners. I think that appealed to Dad.
Each year, in the time of the fall that liked to pretend it was winter, the regional winners packed into vans and cars and trucks and headed to Frankfort – Kentucky’s capitol and home to the hardest course in the Commonwealth. Our scores earned our way there, and we joined hundreds of other runners bundled in warm-ups and toboggans and gloves in the low Kentucky River country. The air was misted with a crisp fog, our breath encircled our heads like personal clouds, and the grass crunched under our shoes.
Good running weather.
By the time I reached my senior year in high school, my team had run that state course five times. Each time, we walked the three-point-one. Each time, Dad went with us. When Dad walked the course, he didn’t pay as much attention to the roots, the arrows, or the holes. He sought out the spans he knew would most test my weaknesses, my endurance, my will. He knew where I would need the most encouragement because he knew me.
An aerial view of the state course back in the late eighties would have shown up pretty much like a giant lower-case g. Runners started where they would eventually end, a wide place at the tail of the g. In the first curve, the path narrowed. From there, through a long stretch of woods, we headed up a slight incline toward the upper loop of the g. Halfway around that loop, about two miles in, the ground steepened considerably. That Hill.
Here, the very earth tested each runner’s grit. We stabbed our feet into the hillside, pumped our arms for momentum and air, and learned the value of each practice where Coach Stewart barked at us to run until we threw up and then run some more. We had no choice but to lean in and move forward. Runners who survived That Hill were rewarded with a relatively flat section of course that closed the upper loop of the g, then wound back through the woods -- this time as a long, slight downhill. Toward the narrow curve of the tail was the place we’d begin that final kick to pick off any competitors that lay between us and the finish line.
Each year for five years, I dreaded that course. Each year for five years, Dad tucked himself into a stand of trees bordering the path on That Hill. He stood sentinel beside a weathered cypress, ball cap on backwards, his best pair of Bushnell binoculars pressed to his eyes.
He watched for me.
As I sucked in air, stabbed the earth with my feet, and wanted more than anything to just surrender to That Hill, Dad did what only my dad could do. He dropped his binocs to hang from the plastic strap around his neck. He turned his cap with the bill pulled low over his eyes. He cupped his hands around his mouth, megaphone style, and he made sure I heard his voice.
Let’s go!
So, I went.
Dig deep!
So, I dug.
Don’t stop!
So, I continued.
My feet found purchase. My screaming muscles strained against exhaustion. I flexed, hard. My heart pounded through every fiber of my being. Footfall by footfall, I gained the top.
That’s it! Now, go get ‘em!
So, I ran.
I never finished first, but I never finished last. And I never quit.
After high school, I competed as a scholarship walk-on with our college team, making the nationals one year in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Again, I was never first, but I never finished last. And I never quit.
After college, came marriage. A different race of its own. Each year with a husband addicted to alcohol was harder than the year before it. Eventually, I filed for divorce and became a single parent to three children under the age of ten. The hills of life were steep, indeed. As I ran my course, Dad’s voice echoed in my head.
Let’s go! Dig deep! Don’t stop! That’s it! Now, go get ‘em!
About two years before Dad died, we had a few quiet, vulnerable moments. They were rare, those moments. I always felt like I’d disappointed him. I was born a girl. I wore my heart on my sleeve. I liked reading and writing and horses and art, and no matter how I tried, I just couldn’t grasp geometry. I’d chosen poorly in marriage, was too hard on my children, and leaned more toward reformed faith. What was worse, we had disagreed so fiercely about a family issue that the chasm between us had widened to the point that no bridge on earth could span it. But on this day, somehow, God blessed us with moments of mercy. Dad talked about his training to be a bus driver for the preschool. He talked about his activities at church. He talked about my mom and his concerns for her health. I talked about my writing career, activities at my church, and how the kids had turned out.
We walked the courses of our lives with our words. The races run, the races still to come. We didn’t think then that we’d finish first, but we figured if we just kept going, we wouldn’t finish last, either.
In October 2022, I sat beside his hospice bed in the house my dad had built with his own hands. I counted his breaths and considered all the time we’d had together. I knew then it would never be enough, and at the same time - in a way I still can’t explain - it was enough.
As I watched him run the last leg of his race, I thought of another hill. The one where our Savior died. We had that common ground, Dad and I did, under the crude tree of the cross. We had each believed and received mercy and grace in our times of need. And with all my heart, as Dad drew his last breath, I cheered for a race well run.
Let’s go! Dig deep! Don’t stop! That’s it! Now, go get ‘em, Dad, you’ve won!
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