On Top of the Hill

Today is my  fortieth birthday.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning to go to the bathroom (a sure sign of my age), and when I climbed back in bed, my husband rolled over and said, “Happy birthday, babe. I guess you’re on top of the hill.”

On top of the hill.

I never thought about it like that. It’s always been about the uphill climb, or worrying about being over the hill. What a rare joy it is to be right here on the top, where I can stop for awhile, look around, and enjoy the view.

Not that there’s anything magic about turning 40. You ask a 10-year-old what over-the-hill is and they’d probably say something like 25. On the other hand, when my boss turned 50 she proudly proclaimed, “50 is the new 30!” and started running marathons.

Forty is, however, a milestone birthday. It’s nice, frankly, no longer to be 39 — the age that sounds like a lie every time you say it.

“How old are you?”

“I’m 39.”

“Oooohhhhhh, right.” Insert knowing smile here. “Me too.”

Forty, on the other hand, is a nice round number. A whole new demographic bracket on surveys and census forms. Middle age.

The Middle Ages.

I was interviewed at my local elementary school not long ago, and realized during the conversation that I’m older than the microwave. Older than personal computers, DVDs, VHS. I’m now a subject of interest for historical perspectives. I’m soooo last millennium.

Looking out at all of those school children, I saw what could have been the faces of my own classmates staring back at me. Many of them are the children of kids I grew up with, and their little “mini-me” faces really took me back.

I don’t have any little mini-me’s, and that’s something else I can’t help but think about today. My doctor’s voice echoes in my head as she says the words “advanced maternal age” and I’m insulted. I’m also shocked because I realize I put off the decision until the decision made itself. It’s OK, my life is good and happy and full. That ship has sailed, but I can’t help but look back at the shoreline now and again and wish. But I’m mixing my metaphors, so let’s get back to the hill.

I attempted to climb Mt. Katahdin with my husband on our last anniversary, in September. In my last post, I revealed that I am fat and I can’t run. Well, it turns out I’m not altogether fantastic at climbing, either. In my defense, I made it to within a mile or so of the top before I begged my husband to leave me there on the side of the boulder-strewn rockfall, to die. Fortunately, he turned me down, and the two of us began the disappointing and exhausting downward hike back to the parking lot, having fallen short of the summit (For the record, he could have made it to the top, and he wanted to, badly. But he didn’t make me feel bad about holding him back. Not even once.).

But while we were there at the highest part of our climb, we stopped (read: collapsed) for a little rest, and I remember turning around to sit on a rock and looking back at where we’d come from. We’d finally cleared the tree line, and it was a gorgeous day of blue skies and the occasional puffy cloud. We could see miles and miles. My husband was trying to pinpoint landmarks that would show us our starting point. When he pointed it out to me, I was amazed at how far we’d come through this wilderness of trees.

We’d spent five hours slogging step after step over rocks and tree branches, unable to see more than the trail ahead of us. We had little idea how far we’d gone, how far we had to go, or even where, exactly, we were. And then suddenly we were at the top (well, almost) of the hill. Everything was clear. And I turned right around and went back where I came from (after snapping a photo as evidence of my arduous journey).

I did that once before. I spent years climbing the corporate ladder, toiling away, unable sometimes to pick up my head and see where it was all leading. I had amazing experiences, met wonderful people who taught me things and shared their lives. I was a professional over-achiever, and I put all my energy into my career. But in between awards and promotions and life-changing experiences, I got pretty lost. I’ve wondered at times whether anyone else noticed how lost I was. I was functioning on depression and adrenaline most of the time, and I started to self-destruct. I was raised to believe in a God who was there for me, who gave me hope and a future, but I felt like I was too much of a disappointment to ring him up and ask for a handout. So I just kept wandering in circles, my pride a poor compass.

“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Proverbs 22:6

He didn’t forget about me, though. Since I was too stubborn to ask for help, He started throwing people at me. A coworker who talked openly about her faith. Another who invited me to her church. A perfect stranger who came up to me in a bar and asked if she could pray for me. And one day I was traveling in Detroit, Mich., and turned on the radio in the rental car. It was tuned to a Christian radio station — pretty rare in itself — and a song by FFH came on: “Lord Move, or Move Me.”

I’d never heard it before, and I’ve never forgotten it since. The opening lines are:

I can’t find the words to pray, I’m a little down today / Can You help me, Can You hold me? /I feel a million miles away, And I don’t know what to say / Can You hear me anyway?

It got my attention. I prayed a few times over the next while. Asked some other people to pray for me too. And the fog lifted a little. It got easier to breathe.

Then finally, a few years ago, I reached a break in the trees. I turned around, and the view of where I’d come from took my breath away.

And I turned right around and went back where I came from. Literally. I grew up in Charlotte, Maine, and moved back here in 2012 with no job, no debt and no plan except to enjoy the first year of my adult life free from performance reviews.

When I reached my hometown, my spirit felt as beat up as my body did at the end of that climb up Mt. Katahdin. It took a couple months to feel better, to get out from under the self-imposed pressure to perform that had so defined me. But eventually, I started to enjoy having nothing to prove for the first time in forever. I didn’t do half the things on my sabbatical bucket list, but I managed to knock out a few big ones:

1. Read the entire Bible
2. Go hiking with my nephew at Quoddy Head State Park
3. Visit Puerto Rico
4. Attend my first Pirate Festival
5. Spend Mother’s Day with my mother
6. Shoot pool with my father
7. Enjoy 100 cups of coffee with my Gram
8. Build a house
9. Start a business
10. Meet my future husband … Wait, what?

Yeah, I didn’t see those last few coming either. It’s funny … within the same month in 2014, I got two unsolicited job offers and a marriage proposal. Those job offers were my second chance to climb that mountain I’d wandered around on for so long. But I found it was no longer so important to reach that particular summit. So I said yes to the only offer that really mattered to me. This wife gig is the best job ever, and I like this view just fine.

It’s taken the better part of four years, but things are just now starting to level out a little. I can use the word “wife” to describe myself without feeling like an imposter. I’m batting about .750 when it comes to giving the right last name when asked. Our family is growing up, and we are growing together. We found a church that we enjoy being part of. My days have routine where once there was only chaos. I’m finally learning to put God first in it. I’m learning how to eat food instead of feelings, I’ve come to accept daily exercise as simply part of life, and I’ve come to find victory in a down dog. And even though I’m still fat, I’ve discovered that I actually can run, even if it is just for short distances and only when my bursitis isn’t acting up. My business is good and satisfying, and for the first time, it fits into my life instead of consuming it. I’m still enjoying coffee with my Gram. I finally planted some flowers in our yard last summer, and I’m no longer terrified of driving in snow.

And I am writing, which feels just right.

I looked in the mirror last week, and recoiled in horror to see that my cute little crow’s feet have expanded now to include pretty much the whole bird. I have an age spot. There’s gray in my hair, and my husband and I exchange status updates about my bursitis and his bad back. I am getting older. Sometimes gracefully, sometimes not.

My high school drama coach once told me while doing my stage make-up, “You’ll have beautiful lines when you get older.” I don’t know how she could tell, but she was right. I do have beautiful lines. They are signs of life — a life I’ve been blessed to have, and one that I find peace in looking back on during this day I have on top of the hill.

Maybe 50 is the new 30. And 40? Well, for now it’s just me.

I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see.

From Amazing Grace, by John Newton