Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  I believe the Sergeant is in heaven with Matthew, Rodney, Carl, and Esther. Because of Jesus my Redeemer, I believe one day I will be with all of them again. I also maintain hope that my mother may be in heaven, too. Only God knows what she believed, but I pray it may have been the very thing I sensed that she wanted to tell me not long before she died.

  The miracle of our reunion with the Sergeant has also given me renewed hope that one day I may even see my earthly father, Earl, again.

  even years have passed since we buried the Sergeant in accordance with his wishes at Forest Lawn, next to Rodney Bernanos.

  God, the indefatigable Healer, slowly and steadily sheds His Grace on us. The travel agency has grown, eight offices now, and more profitable than we had ever imagined. The inheritance we received from the Sergeant was put to good use. Luke got his pilot’s license and bought an airplane, his final defeat of the mockingbirds, I guess. And after many years of part-time effort, I completed a degree in English literature.

  The introspective, well-traveled former champion cardboard rider of Billy Goat Hill is taking a stab at writing a novel. I am also working on a youth counseling certificate, which I pray might come in handy one day soon. God is telling me to get ready for something. I am excited.

  Four years ago, Melissa and I bought a cabin on the west shore of Lake Tahoe at Rubicon. Melissa calls it “the project” because we work more than we play when we come to Rubicon. The setting is spectacular—the entire cabin structure projects out over a magnificent grouping of boulders that cling precariously along a thin strip of emerald shoreline.

  A short way out from the water’s edge, shimmering emerald plunges straight down into an infinite chasm of cobalt blue. Looking down into the waters of Rubicon is like looking up into the twilight sky over Billy Goat Hill. I feel God’s presence when I am here. I hear His voice in the sanctity of this breathtaking setting.

  We have modified the cabin to be wheelchair friendly for Miss Cherry. She loves coming to the lake and is trying to convince us that she should be a full-time caretaker and year-round resident at Rubicon. Captain Luke regularly flies us up to Tahoe where we celebrate things as a family. The entourage includes Luke’s dog, Charlie, a Shepherd-Doberman mix that looks so much like Mac, I have come to call him Charlie Mac so I don’t have to constantly correct myself.

  Luke and I, with Charlie on point, sometimes make trips to Rubicon alone. Sojourns to talk, just us brothers, still linked sprites. The cabin is a great place to relax, ruminate, and spend time in prayer with the Lord. The pine-scented seclusion offers a kind of spiritual therapy, a natural easing of the soul’s troubles, and it is here with Luke that I am most comfortable with thoughts and discussions about our past. I would be less than truthful if I denied that I still think about the troubled times or occasionally have a bad dream. I came from there, it is part of who I am, and it always will be, I guess. But it’s this entire life of mine, the total, complete, good and bad reality of me that I have given over to the Lord. I no longer serve the past. I serve the future that is Christ Jesus.

  We are here now, brothers Parker, sitting out on the veranda overlooking the splendor and vastness of Lake Tahoe. Enjoying the late afternoon sun, Luke, ever the philosopher, waxes profound as we lounge beneath the heavenly alpine sky.

  “Rubicon.” Luke gestures to the chilly depths below. Charlie cocks his head to one side and watches Luke intently.

  “Rubicon,” I answer, wondering if encouraging him is in my best interest.

  “It drops off nearly vertical for hundreds of feet. Throw a penny out there, and your wish will come true before it hits bottom.”

  I gaze upon the rippling veneer lying like a shimmering cloak over the glacial depths. “Tell me more, O great philosopher.”

  “Now, pay close attention, you big donkey.”

  “Yes, O younger and smaller donkey.”

  “Rubicon—it means…”

  “Tell me, tell me.”

  He extends his arm, and with great fervor slices it downward toward the waters surface some fifty odd feet below. Charlie and I look down at the water.

  “…to be decisive.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “It means to take irrevocable steps…”

  “Say it, little donkey.”

  “…like Caesar did when he crossed the river Rubicon between Cisalpine Gaul and Italy to march against Pompey.”

  “Did you run into an encyclopedia salesman recently?”

  Luke’s eyes brighten with passion and bore into me as if making a challenge. “To conquer or perish!” he roars, grinning inscrutably, making Charlie bark and wriggle with excitement.

  “To conquer or perish!”

  “Something to think about isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Actually, I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, Luke.”

  “Me, too. Especially when we are here at the cabin. There is something very special about this location. I read somewhere that the Indians believed Lake Tahoe was a spiritual place.”

  I muse about the Indians for a moment. “Isn’t it remarkable how full the Lake is again, after all these years of drought?”

  Luke agrees. “The lake is back up to its natural rim. It’s abundance is once again flowing beyond itself, into the Truckee River.”

  “Kind of amazing, really, if you think about it. After suffering years of deprivation, the lake is full again, even has more than it needs.”

  “Sounds a lot like us, doesn’t it?”

  I glance at him. “Hmm. Yes it does, O great philosopher.”

  He winks.

  Sitting here, the lake doing its spiritual number on me, I think about all of them:

  Matthew,

  Lucinda,

  Earl,

  Carl,

  Rodney,

  Esther,

  Jake,

  Shunkman,

  Duke,

  Mac,

  Miss Cherry, and especially the Sergeant.

  All but Miss Cherry and Duke Snider are fading pictures, images and sounds floating in a river of memories. Now and then I hear Mac barking, though faint, far away.

  To the west behind me, the sun is fast slipping down into the cradle of evening; a waning sliver of fire sets ablaze the windows of cabins far across the lake along the Nevada shoreline. As I look up, the orange flares of mirrored light seem to douse all at once, as if, at long last, the flaming quintessence of the past has been extinguished. I close my eyes, and except for missing Melissa and Kate, stillness and quiet dwell within me.

  Charlie curls himself up in a furry circle at my feet.

  Luke gets up and stretches and goes into the cabin. He reappears with two glasses of iced tea and settles into the deeply cushioned chaise lounge next to me.

  He raises his glass, signaling a toast. “I want to say something I’ve never said before, big brother.”

  “What’s that?” I raise my glass to meet his.

  “Thank you for watching out for me when we were kids. You had to take on the responsibility for just about everything, and I know it wasn’t easy.” He gazes at me, his bright eyes serene, glimmering.

  He’s always been able to sneak up on me like this. I never see it coming. My chest warms. “I couldn’t have made it without you, brother.”

  As we sit here enjoying the unwinding mood of dusk, a gray dove glides down and alights on the deck in front of us. Charlie opens one eye and gives the dove his permission to stay.

  “Some bird dog,” Luke mutters.

  “Not a mockingbird,” I say.

  Luke grins and coos at the dove. “Mockingbirds are for kids, big brother.”

  I nod speculatively as my mind drifts back to the beginning, to a time and place where grand adventures filled our indulgent hearts and courage coursed through our veins with the merciful blue blood of innocence; to a micro-world full of excitement and risk where even the smallest occurrence was important, serious, and equally free of lasting consequence. Something indefinabl
e, deep inside me, cherishes those days. That short-lived period of family life that existed before Matthew died, before Earl ran off to Barstow, leaving us ill-prepared to deal with most things, much less the worst of things. Before the Sergeant and Miss Cherry came along and the world tilted off its axis.

  The hole in me has been mended. I have a Friend now who will never let me down, who will always be here for me and upon whom I can always trust. Thank You, Jesus.

  “Wade?”

  “Yes, O great philosopher?”

  “If they made a movie about us, about our lives, what would they call it?”

  “How about Billy Goat Hill?”

  Luke unleashes a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one. Like who’s ever heard of Billy Goat Hill?”

  “God has.”

  We both sit for a few more minutes, being together, thinking our own thoughts.

  The dove hops up on the lounge near Luke’s feet, fluffs out its feathers, and lowers its body comfortably down over its legs, as though it plans to spend the night right there. I feel that secure with Luke, too. The dove sleepily closes its eyes.

  The lake works on me some more, brings up thoughts of Duke Snider, opening day at Dodger Stadium, my daydream about going down into the clubhouse with him, then him giving me the bat for real. In my heart, I feel Duke really might have said something like what I had imagined he said that day.

  “We must find a way to forgive, or we only end up blaming ourselves.”

  “Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light,” I say out loud without realizing it.

  “Amen,” Luke replies.

  I go inside the cabin and return with the bat that Duke Snider gave to me.

  “Oh no, not the bat,” Luke teases.

  “You’ve never even touched this thing, have you?”

  “Are you kidding—you never let me. You used to threaten me with death if I got anywhere near it.”

  “Here.” I hold it out to him. Older brothers have to be magnanimous once in a while.

  Luke gets up without disturbing the dove. He takes the bat and raises it over his shoulder. Beaming just like the freckle-faced kid he was long ago, he takes a warm-up swing toward Nevada. “Wow! It gives you chills doesn’t it?”

  “I still get chills just looking at it.”

  For a moment we are boys again, best pals, kindred spirits transcending the purlieus of time, joined together by the lasting magnificence of good childhood memories.

  Luke swings the bat again, this time with much more vitality. “It kind of makes you feel powerful, too.”

  In a flash of clarity I know what needs to be done. I take the keyring out of my pocket and remove the ball bearing.

  Luke smiles knowingly and hands me the bat. “To conquer or perish,” he proclaims, and squares up his shoulders as though preparing to advance on Pompey.

  I step to the lake-most point of the veranda and gaze out over the Rubicon. My heart is filled with the spirit of the Lord as Lake Tahoe shimmers under the vestiges of a warm cinnamon sunset. With closed eyes, I visualize little Wade Parker and Luke. I say a silent prayer for all children who need someone to trust, someone to care enough to understand. I pray that they might come to know God as I have. I pray that the Lord in His holy wisdom might one day use me to reach lost and troubled kids for His purposes.

  Father, I want to be like Your Son Jesus. As He suffered for me, let me suffer for Him. Use me God, I am Yours.

  Then I do what I believe Duke Snider would do. I toss the ball bearing up in the pine-scented air, swing the bat with my arms fully extended, and cream that sucker on the sweet spot with everything I have.

  “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven!” Luke shouts victoriously.

  The dove takes flight into the twinkling heavens, Charlie barks, and in my head I hear the Sergeant whisper one last time…“Never look back, Wade.”

  For the first time in my life, I feel like everything is right.

  I leave the bat with Luke and go inside the cabin to call Melissa. I want to tell her about an idea I have to start a foundation to help troubled kids, maybe build a shelter for runaways in Los Angeles. She’ll think it’s a crazy, wonderful idea, and she’ll help me with everything she has to give. I know she will.

  Maybe Luke will sign on as my partner.

  I praise You, Father. With You—I know all things are possible.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

  Dear Reader,

  I have been asked many times how much of this story really happened. I frequently hear comments and questions like, “This feels too real to be a novel,” or “Did this or that actually happen?” So here’s a brief synopsis of the story behind the story.

  The character of Wade Parker is imbued with the true feeling and emotion of my early youth, and the relationship between Wade and Luke is loosely based on my recollections of my relationship with my brother Paul. We did suffer the death of our younger brother, John; our family did fall apart; we did have a dog named Mac; and Billy Goat Hill, Eagle Rock, Three Ponds, and Cavendish Caverns all were real places.

  Drawing from the pathos and drama of my personal history, I constructed a fictional world set within and without the boundaries of my real-life childhood experience. This methodology is not unusual. Some of the best novels ever written have been biographically inspired. What is important, and what I would like most to share with you, is how God worked a miracle in my life and continues to work miracles through the writing and publication of this book.

  I wrote the first passages of Billy Goat Hill in the summer of 1992. Though writing has always provided an artistic release, breathing life into the character of Wade Parker began a kind of catharsis I had not previously experienced as a writer. I am a novelist, one who imagines a story and then tells it, but this time something compelled me to dig inward and dare to reveal a good deal of truth about my own life. I did not yet know God as my Creator or Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, nor was I aware of the existence of the Holy Spirit. I now know how omnipresent the mysterious Holy Triune is.

  As the manuscript progressed, my soul whirled and stirred with a passion of Spirit that was so freeing it amazed me. Wade Parker emerged with a powerful purpose, challenging me, often goading me to acknowledge what was missing in my own life…the ability to forgive. In many ways this is a very personal book as my heart is laid bare through the voice of Wade Parker. Forgiveness, which is the essence of Christ, has become elemental to my faith, and it is my fervent hope that my readers be impacted by this essential message.

  I self-published the original version, titled The King of Billy Goat Hill, under the pen name Mark Stanleigh, in 1996. The secular version was something of a success, but more important, the release of the book began part two of an incredible journey. For sixteen months I traveled the country doing personal appearances, meeting people, and thinking, thinking, thinking. Wade Parker took me on a sojourn into the wilderness culminating with a spiritual epiphany that changed my life forever. At the age of forty-eight, I came to understand that God was real and He had a plan for my life.

  I soon found myself in God’s boot camp learning about His will and His Word, and not, to my surprise and disappointment, doing much writing. For the next five years, He saw fit to engage me in many things, but not writing. Then, when He knew I was ready, and when I least expected it, he worked another incredible miracle. He arranged for me to meet and become friends with David Van Diest, who is now my agent.

  By then I had adjusted to the idea that God’s plan for me apparently did not include writing, so it took a while for me and David, two new friends getting to know each other, to come around to the subject. Eventually we did, and the long version of what ultimately transpired will be saved for forums other than this short letter. A summary of the amazing events that led to the publication of this book reads as follows: A novel written by a secular writer is published in 1996. Writing the book is a life-changing experience that leads
the writer toward God. Nine years later, five years after the writer has given his heart to the Lord (and has done very little writing in between), and without pursuing it, he is offered a contract to rewrite and publish a novel about forgiveness, the writing of which led the writer to know the Lord in the first place.

  I share this with you, dear reader, because I’d like you to be in on God’s miracle. You see, only God could make this happen. I can’t tell you how rare it is for a previously published secular novel to be rewritten and published by a Christian book publisher. (Francine Rivers’ Redeeming Love is the only one that comes to mind, which I highly recommend, by the way.)

  I praise God that you have had the opportunity to read this book and welcome your comments and questions.

  Blessings,

  Mark Stanleigh Morris

  DISCUSSION GUIDE

  Part of the story in Billy Goat Hill derives from the death of baby Matthew, the subsequent disintegration of the Parker family, and how these circumstances affect the surviving brothers, Wade and Luke. The Parker family didn’t seem to have much of a spiritual foundation. How do you think this fact affected their responses to Matthew’s death? How has tragedy impacted your life? In what ways did your spiritual foundation or lack of one make a difference?

  Told from Wade’s point of view, the story delves into his perception of his responsibility as the older brother. Where are you in the birth order in your family? If you were (are) the oldest, how do you identify with Wade? If you are not the oldest, did the story cause you to think about your relationship with an older sibling? How so?

  About the only constant throughout their entire childhood was the brotherly love shared by Wade and Luke. What role do you think that played in their survival? Do you think Matthew’s death strengthened the love between Wade and Luke? Why or why not?