I met Hilby around seven years ago. The exact stretch has become a bit of a blur, but I remember well that first meeting. I was looking for a part-time job to help moderate the cashflow extremes of freelance editing and writing, and my friend Todd, music director at First Presbyterian Church of Hastings, offered to arrange an interview for me with the facilities manager for a custodial position. I grabbed the chance, and that’s how Hilby came into my life.
I was sitting in the church’s narthex when he walked up and extended his hand. “I’m Hilby,” he said with a grin. “Like people say about me: ‘Hilby here and he’ll be there.”
He was a robust guy in his sixties with a short, neatly trimmed beard—more like a full goatee with a little extra carpeting on the sides—to match his full head of medium-length salt-and-pepper hair. He was one of those people you instantly like because they like people.
Well, we got to talking, discussing the position and checking each other out, when a woman walked up. Neither of us had seen her in the church before, and I’ve forgotten what her circumstances were. I just remember she was in a tough spot and needed some help. Hilby steered her toward the proper staff and offered to pray for her, and I said, “Can we pray right now?”
Yes, she said, so we did. And that spontaneous prayer, besides encouraging and blessing the woman, marked the beginning of my friendship with one of the best men I’ll ever know.
Of course we started as boss and employee, and that’s how it was for a while. Hilby proved to be a superb communicator and a fair-minded manager who won my respect not only for his high standards but also because he never asked me to do anything he wouldn’t do, hadn’t done, and didn’t continue to do himself. His position made him my boss, but his example made him a leader who merited my loyalty.
As the months progressed, we moved from a good start into the easy and fun camaraderie of two men working together, serious about delivering our best but also laughing and kidding around, giving each other shot the way guys do. I’m not sure “shot” is the right spelling, but in any case, we dished it out and took it in turn, with a practical joke here and there to pepper things up. There were serious conversations and times of prayer as well, more of them as we got to know each other better.
After a couple years, I moved from Caledonia to Hastings, following which a personal grief hit me hard. Hilby was there during my sorrow on through the healing. I made some necessary changes in my life, among them being a return to the gym. I’ve lifted iron off and on since my early twenties, albeit with periods of inactivity, and it felt good to get back at it. At a certain point I invited Hilby to join me. It seemed the natural thing to do, him being a hands-on, outdoorsman kind of guy. He picked me up on the offer and, to my surprise and pleasure, invested himself fully, and we became regular lifting buddies. Twice a week we hit the weight room at the high school. A lot of people lose interest after an initial burst of enthusiasm, but Hilby stuck with it, called me his coach (I felt honored), worked hard, and did great. We encouraged each other. We had fun. And our friendship solidified and grew.
Hilby was the soul of gregarious. The way he’d engage with people amazed me. I’d walk into the church on a Monday morning and there he’d be, talking to some young mom or dad whom he’d known since they were little and who now had kids of their own in preschool; or ratchet-jawing with some guy his own age, or with church staff, or with…well, with anyone and everyone who came along. It’s my conviction that the better part of Barry County knew and loved my buddy.
As congenial as he was, Hilby was nevertheless also razor sharp. In the past, as a supervisor at Steelcase, he had introduced a number of time- and cost-saving efficiencies and best practices that saved the company wads of money, increased productivity, and, thanks to Hilby’s win-win ethic, made him a hero to those both under him and over him. It’s how he thought: How could the existing be improved to everyone’s advantage? How could he save a dime here and a dime there, knowing that the dimes added up? Only Hilby would have insisted that the toilet paper in the church bathrooms be installed a certain way because the rolls lasted longer. He had researched this. Who else would even think of such a thing?
Hilby and I shared a love of the outdoors. Our interests were different, but they meshed. The man was steeped in hunting and fishing. When deer season opened, he was in the woods—you could count on it. Ditto with turkey. And he was as happy ice fishing as sitting in a boat. I’m an infrequent dabbler at such stuff, but Hilby . . . his knowledge of wild game ran deep. If you knew him, you know what I mean. The outdoors was Hilby. He was a native son of the woods, field, and water, and upon returning from an excursion, out would come his cell phone, and he’d show you photo after photo of his latest expedition.
There were just two things I know of that Hilby loved more than hunting. One was his family, and of course the outdoors spilled over into that. There were photos of his granddaughter with her first deer and turkey . . . of improvements he and his son, Brian, were making on Brian’s land to optimize it for hunting . . . he was so proud of them, and he had a lot of respect for Brian. And after many years of marriage, he was still nuts about Reggie. I loved that about the two of them.
Reggie, thanks for the dinners at your place with you and Hilby. For me, the greatest treat was to see the friendship between the two of you, the liking and fondness you had for one another. His love for you came out in conversations you never even heard. When a man talks about his wife the way he talked about you, I know they’re both special people who’ve built something really good between them.
The other and foremost thing Hilby loved more than hunting was his Lord and Savior, Jesus. I am comforted to think my friend is with him now. So we grieve—God gave us tear ducts because he knew we’d need them to ease our hearts when they break—but “[we] do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Hilby has walked down the road ahead of us and over the hilltop. But just around some not-too-distant bend, he’s waiting with his son Scott and other loved ones in the presence of the One who knows and loves him best.
Hilby and I shared quite a few prayer times together. I knew his heart, and it was gold. And I know the same Lord that Hilby knows, to whom he entrusted himself. Jesus is utterly trustworthy, the way, the truth, and the life. The promises he makes, he keeps. And he has assured us, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die” (John 11:25–26).
After Hilby stepped down from his supervisory position at the church in August, the four of us men who worked under him—John Rutzen, Wade Nitz, Jim Daniels, and I—got together with our old boss and friend for an afternoon of fishing on John’s boat. It was a fitting way to celebrate Hilby’s graduation into real, well-earned retirement. We all knew that for him, retirement was just a transition into other kinds of activity; Hilby wasn’t made for sitting except in a deer blind. None of us ever dreamed that sunlit time with the five of us out on the lake would be our last. I’m so glad we had it together.
The story of Hilby’s life is, as with all of us, one of countless stories woven together from birth to death . . . and beyond, where the story continues as part of a far greater Story. That Story is one of unfathomable grandeur in which we all play a part. These words of mine capture only glimpses of a good man’s life lived lovingly, full-heartedly, and well.
I continue to do my custodial work twice a week, but it hasn’t been the same since Hilby left, and now . . . The church is full of memories of my friend and echoes of his voice—of the big grin, the fist bumps, the good work we did together, the conversations, the prayers, the shot given and shot returned . . . all of that and so much more, more than I can possibly tell. I miss my buddy Hilby. I will miss him in the years to come. When I’m out hiking the trails, or lifting weights, or casting a line in the water, I will think of him.
Thank you, my good friend and brother in Christ, for sharing life with me. I’ll see you again in a while . . . where you’re waiting, just around the bend.