The Hill

There was a wonderful hill near my house in the neighborhood where I grew up.
It was the hill where everyone went sledding.
From an upstairs window in my house, I could see the hill clearly.
I could see if anyone was already sledding.

That hill seemed to call to most everyone in the neighborhood.
It was the hill where you could sled down with two people on the sled.
It was the hill where I first had the courage to go down the hill head first on my sled.
I would never do that now but back then it was thrilling.

Everyone either had a saucer sled or a Flexible Flyer sled.
At one time, I remember having both.
It was the Flexible Flyer sled that I liked the best because it allowed me to steer.
I would steer, trying to make sure the rope did not get caught under the runners.

Everyone bundled up to the point of the unrecognizable.
No one needed to think about formal exercise.
We walked everywhere.
Just running up and down the sledding hill gave anyone enough steps for the day.

The hill was so big.
My little girl feet felt like lead at the end of a sledding day.
Patches of grass would peek through the snow that had been worn away.
Every neighborhood child went sledding on this particular hill.

The hill was safe.
No one had to worry about cars.
The hill was actually part of a ball field for the local elementary school.
You started at the top and sled down to the flat part of the field.

Hours upon hours were spent on that hill on any given winter day.
The first day, the snow was excellent for sledding.
As the temperatures rose and the sun shone on the hill, the conditions were less than perfect.
There would not be as many children the second day unless a lot of snow had fallen.

I couldn’t wait to see that hill when my husband and I drove back to my old neighborhood.
I described all the fun I had there.
I told him about lugging my sled up the hill over and over again.
I mentioned how very tired I was at the end of a day of sledding.

We got to my old neighborhood.
I saw the swim club that I used to walk to each day.
I looked up the road and saw my old house.
It seemed so much further all those years ago.

There it is, I said pointing to the famous hill.
My husband looked over and saw my large sledding hill.
It was not large.
It was not very high.

The only thing that I remembered correctly was that it was part of a ball field.
What happened to my hill? I asked out loud.
Nothing, my husband answered.
You were just a little girl then, he said quietly.

I knew I was in the right place.
I saw my old house and my old street.
We drove past my little white house and up the street where I walked so many times before.
I knew where my friends had lived and how far it seemed back then.

In reality, it was just a short walk.
However, with little legs, it seemed like those houses was so far away.
I felt so grown up when I could walk up the street by myself.
I felt even more grownup when I could walk around the block by myself.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed.
The tree that was on my front lawn was no longer there.
The houses were closer together than I remembered.
I spent my entire childhood here and it was good.

Isn’t it funny how our perspective changes?
The thing itself doesn’t change as much as we do.
We have moved away and our world gets much larger.
We see so many new things beyond the scope of our growing up years.

It changes us.
The important thing is that we never forget where we came from.
We must never forget our roots.
We must never forget the people that helped mold us into the person we are today.

Our horizons may have expanded but our childhood home is always home.
Life may take us all over the world but we started somewhere.
That somewhere is important.
That somewhere is sovereignly ordained.

From one man He made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and He determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us. For in Him we live and move and have our being. (Acts 17:26-28)

God determined the time and the exact places where we should live.
God determined.
Those memories are part of who we are.
Those places are part of our story.

My husband was right.
Nothing happened to my hill.
I simply grew up.
However, that hill is part of me.

That street is part of me.
Those people are part of me.
Those memories are my memories.
And they are so very good.

2 responses to “The Hill”

1. Oh this brings back such memories! There was a hill in front of my house. It was a road, but when snow-covered (plowed but not to the pavement). I remember my Dad taking me down in our sled–such fun! I lived in that house until I got married, I remember going back years later and being surprised at how small our lot was. I’m so thankful that God put me there–with godly parents in a nice town in a great country and at the time I was growing up–40’s and 50’s. Our country was a better place then.

   Reply

   • Sue,
     It is bittersweet to go back to where you grew up. It always looks different than the way you remember it. More than the way it looks, is what the place and the people mean to you. They are precious and are part of who you are. I am glad this post brought back wonderful memories for you.
     Gina

     Reply