Back Into Lane One

There are moments in life that do not seem important at the time.

A race.

A voice.

A single decision to keep going.

But years later, you realize you have been living out of that moment ever since.

Lately I’ve been watching my old Rapid City Central track team online — the Cobblers. The “Cobblers” were named after one of the school’s early coaches, Coach Cobb. Seeing those kids running at the state meet brought me back to a race I have never forgotten.

I moved to Rapid City between my freshman and sophomore year of high school.

Leaving Wagner was hard.

In Wagner, South Dakota, I knew who I was. My class had 77 kids in it and I knew every one of them. I had friends. I belonged. I was this close to having a girlfriend!

But then our family moved west to Rapid City. And to be honest, our family was broken. My sister Rachel had died in a car accident the year before. Dad was struggling with his calling as s pastor. We were all trying to find our footing again. And to be honest, Rapid di not seem like a place where you could do that!

It just seemed way too big! and all the rules were different!

For instane class registration! In Wagner that was a cake walk. In Rapid it was a huge and complicated set of secret codes. And noone was there to give us any!

I remember showing up late to registration and they handed everybody a number. Mine was 806! I never forgot it because that was the size of my sophomore class at Rapid City Central. I was the last one to register for classes. I didnt get one class I wanted!

Standin in that gym full of strangers, I suddenly yearned for the small town where everyone knew my name!

At Rapid City Central, I suddenly felt like a starfish washed up on a shore full of thousands.

But I still had one secret weapon: basketball!

Back in Wagner, if there was one thing I knew about myself, it was this: I was a basketball player. That was the one thing I hung my hat on. That was my place. That was my identity. Once Rapid saw my game I still had a chance!

So I went out for basketball hoping with all my heart to make the team. One day during tryouts I scored fourteen points in a pickup game and thought, Maybe I’ve got a shot.

Then came the day the roster was posted outside the coach’s office. I searched once. Then again. No Brook. I tried to act like it didn’t matter, but tears slipped down my face. And now, even worse, I was the “wimpy kid” crying in the hallway. It felt like my name had been erased from the book of life.

My dad encouraged me to stay involved as a manager, but I didn’t want to hold towels. I wanted to play. So for a while, I drifted.

Then a track coach came looking for me. “Brook, we need you.” Sometimes a life changes because somebody simply notices you. Eventually the coach looked at me and said, “I think you’re a distance runner.” And somehow that landed me in the 3200 meters.

The gun went off and at first I felt great. The crowd was cheering. I heard somebody say, “Who’s that new kid?” For the first time in a long while, I felt seen. But by the second lap my legs got heavy. By the fourth, people were passing me. By the sixth, I wanted out.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. I thought, Well, at least there’s still one guy I can beat. So I picked up the pace. But he flew right by me. That’s when I realized he wasn’t behind me. He was lapping me.

The air went out of me. I stepped over into lane eight and stopped. And honestly, I think a lot of people know what lane eight feels like.

That place where you feel behind.

Embarrassed.

Done.

The place where you quietly wonder if you should just disappear.

Then I heard another voice. My dad had just arrived late to the meet. He jumped out of the car and yelled: “Hang in there, Brook! You can do it! Finish the race, buddy!” And somehow, I stepped back into lane one. I finished. It may have been the slowest 3200 meters in South Dakota history, but I finished.

Looking back now, I think that moment may have saved me. Because there were a lot of directions I could have gone in those years. Ways to disappear. Ways to quit.

It’s amazing how many opportunities this world offers you when you are in the eighth lane…none of them healthy!

But over time I’ve realized something: so much of faith is simply hearing the voices that call us back into the race.

Sometimes that voice comes through a parent. Sometimes through a friend.

Sometimes through a teacher, a coach, a stranger, a pastor.

And sometimes, if we are paying attention, that voice is God. Not shouting from far away. More like a campfire. Close enough to hear the breathing. Standing near the track, calling us back toward life.

As I look back now, I realize my life has been filled with voices calling me back into the race. My dad at a track meet.

My wife, Cyndy, during hard seasons when I was exhausted or discouraged.

Friends who checked in.

Teachers who believed in me.

Coaches who saw something in me before I saw it in myself.

And honestly, churches have done that for me too. Not perfectly. But faithfully.

As I reflect back another memory comes:

It begins on a snowy Thanksgiving Eve, in Geddes, South Dakota. My first year in ministry.

The service was set for 7 p.m., but by 5, we had five inches of snow on the ground. At 6:30, I decided to walk to the church and post a note that the service was canceled. Who would come out in this weather? The wind had picked up, and a foot-deep drift sat in front of the church.

But as I turned the corner, there was a car. It was Gilbert and Lucille Haney—85 years old, barely able to walk. But they were ready to worship. Gilbert pulled a snow shovel from the trunk. Lucille smiled at me and said, “I’ll put the coffee on, Pastor.”

I think about that night often. And I realize, over the years, churches have done that for me time and again. Not perfectly. But faithfully.

It’s the VBS teacher staying up late spray-painting crosses for the church lawn.

It’s the band member coming in early to tune his guitar before worship.

It’s the woman who just lost her husband still saying yes to reading Scripture, even knowing tears may come.

It’s the office manager opening the church early for the furnace repairman.

It’s the choir director staying late to help a child struggling through a song.

It’s people making coffee. Pulling weeds. Fixing gutters. Serving meals. Praying in hospital rooms. Singing even when their voices shake.

Those are holy acts. Those ordinary sacred moments have carried me more than people probably know. Sometimes just watching people keep showing up has helped me keep showing up too.

I think that may be one of the holiest things we do for one another: we help each other step back into lane one. We become the voice saying: “Hang in there. You can do it. Keep going.”

And maybe that’s how God so often speaks. Not from a stadium spotlight. But from ordinary people gathered around the campfire of grace. Close enough to hear the breathing. Standing near the track, calling one another back toward life.

Your pastor, thankful for thousands of tiny acts by all of you that have kept me running in lane one through the years, Brook