Hope Rising (11 page)

Friends of the family brought Madeline to the ranch. I helped her mount up in the round pen on a tall gray Anglo-Arab mare we had named Misha.

They’ll make a good match
, I thought. The horse had been
named after Meshach, a young man in the Bible whom God had saved from a fiery furnace. A local rendering plant had been dispatched to send butchers to come and pick up the horse, but when they saw her emaciated condition they laughed and told the owner that she wasn’t worth their time. I bought her shortly afterward. After gaining 380 pounds in our care, Misha was healthy, happy, and completely yielding to my simple voice commands. This bright filly had also left her ashes behind.

At first Madeline was tentative and unsure. Her thoughts were too fractured to allow her to focus. Her eyes stared straight down, and she held onto the saddle with both hands. From the middle of the round pen I gently commanded the horse. Misha seemed to recognize the child’s sorrow and responded with such balanced tenderness that the girl would have needed no saddle at all.

After walking many patterned circles, Madeline seemed to relax a little. I decided that the concentration it would take for her to trot would be a simple distraction from her grief. After sharing with Madeline what to expect and how to move with the horse, I gently commanded Misha to trot. The young mare’s body language conveyed that she understood she was carrying a very fragile child. By extending her head forward and down, she moved as if she were traveling over eggshells.

From time to time, Madeline looked in my direction and nodded at my instructions. Several times I saw her wavering hand leave the safety of the saddle horn and touch Misha’s neck. It was a tiny step in a positive direction.

She continued to ride. I continued to pray.

Before our time was over, Madeline conveyed to me that she wanted to try cantering. It’s not something I would normally allow, but I felt that this was an exceptional circumstance. I spent several moments instructing her, gently molding her fingers on the reins and adjusting the angles of her knees and ankles. Finally I asked Madeline if she was ready. She met my eyes and nodded.

Misha responded to my voice by reaching out with her forelegs in a smooth lope. I watched as the fluid rhythm unfolded before me—horse and rider moving as one—hair, mane, and tail waving in timeless unison. Around and around and around they cantered. Together their beauty circled me like a carousel.

Then quite suddenly the moment broke. It was time for the friends who had brought Madeline to go. She dismounted and left as quietly as she had come. Saddened by their quick departure, I wondered as I tacked down my gray “angel,”
Was it enough, Lord? Did I do all I could to make an environment that would help bring healing?

A short time later, Madeline moved away to live with her remaining family. I thought of her often, always with a twinge of sadness. I felt like I had failed to relieve this child’s pain, to give her the safe and loving refuge that had been given to me.

Several weeks passed and I was standing in the checkout line at a local supermarket, thumbing through a batch of newly developed photographs. Suddenly I stopped. Somehow I had missed it. But now here it was, a moment captured in time—a photograph of Madeline cantering on Misha that day at the ranch. Both of Madeline’s hands were gripping the pommel of the saddle. The gray filly’s
mane nearly covered them as it flowed back in the breeze. The girl’s hair was floating freely behind her as well. Her chin was raised; her lips were parted in a soft smile. In the protective circle of our round pen, a brokenhearted little girl had left her pain behind just long enough to let a blissful smile find her lips.

But what moved me the most were her eyes … they were closed. And then I knew. I knew that for a brief moment, Madeline had truly found her refuge.

Maiden Voyage
 

W
HEREVER SHE
goes her white cane precedes her, gently tapping the ground with the rhythm of a metronome. Shelley is blind. I watched with fascination as step by measured step she explored the ranch. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like, how hard it would be to understand a world you could not see.

Today was to be her maiden voyage—her first ride. We chose a young horse named River to carry her. He was a small bay Arabian gelding who was frightened of nothing. His easygoing personality resembled more that of a seasoned twenty-year-old than his scant four years. I felt that his kind and relaxed manner would suit Shelley well.

Under the gentle guidance of Elishah and Rachel, two of our senior staff, Shelley led River into the arena. She was helped off the top step of the mounting block and into the saddle. Before River began to move, Shelley asked with simple innocence, “What does it feel like to ride?”

Elishah and Rachel pondered her question for a moment before wisely returning with, “Why don’t you tell us?” With that they began to lead River around the arena. The leaders watched with deep satisfaction as pure wonder began to shape the blind girl’s expression.

In silence the little team walked nearly an entire lap before Shelley spoke. Her eyes fluttered closed and she tipped her chin upward as if trying to catch the breeze on her cheeks. “I can tell that I am really high up in the air,” she finally said in a soft voice rich with imagination. Her eyes remained closed. “It’s very windy up here. I feel like I could fly. Yes, if I put my wings out and fly, I can feel all of my troubles blowing away.”

A Red Letter Day
 

H
ARRY’S ILLNESS
had advanced beyond medical control. Should he choose length of life and the agony-filled days that went with it or let nature lead the way to a shorter life of peace and dignity? Sorrow and peace, light and dark, pain and release—all were bound together in a whirlpool of emotion.

His decision was made. No more treatments, no more therapies. Harry’s emotional storm subsided. But with that decision came great sacrifice. Harry fully understood that choosing to reject agonizing treatment for his illness would be more comfortable physically but also would cost him dearly in lost time with his family. When he crossed the finish line of his life, would anyone applaud his legacy? Was the life he was soon to leave behind prepared with enough love to carry his family through his absence? Who would comfort his loved ones in his place?

At the rich age of seventy-four, he was a devoted Missouri husband, father, and grandfather. But his family was scattered across the country, far from his arms like brilliant leaves swirling in a gusty fall wind. To travel across America’s vast expanse to again hold his family in
his arms would, like the fall leaves, become a thing of the past. It would soon be too painful and exhausting for him to endure. With a whispered prayer he determined that every cherished family moment would be a precious source of light and love in each of his remaining days.

God heard Harry’s prayer.

I love my job because it allows me the honor of working with some of the dearest friends that the Lord has brought into my life. Among them is a couple, David and Petra, special friends whom I coach in strength training. They are close enough to speak truth into my life when I need help. Often, when I don’t have the answers, their wisdom and love have become the banks of my river. They are counselors, working together to gently comfort and restore broken families.

As in most deeply rooted friendships, we had a foundational understanding of each other’s families. I had been greatly saddened to hear that David’s father, Harry, was dying of cancer.

One brisk February day David, Petra, and I were training together and talking about Harry’s illness when a call for help came in to rescue a number of starving horses. Very few of the horses we rescue are donated; most of the time we must purchase their release—such was this case.

David and Petra responded immediately. By combining their finances with ours and some other caring friends’, we were able to purchase the freedom of five two-year-old Arab colts. Once they were safely moved to the quarantine paddock that we keep for new arrivals, David and Petra came without delay to see them.

The young colts huddled together, their tiny bodies
gaining courage from each other as they greeted us with their huge liquid brown eyes. No one spoke. I directed David’s and Petra’s attention to the weakest of them, a small bay colt at the back of the herd. Angular and gaunt, he looked to be in the worst condition. Even his heavy winter coat could not hide his ribs—they stood out like pickets in a fence.

From a distance, David stood and looked at the starving waif. For long minutes there was no movement other than the tousling of David’s hair in the chilling wind. Even that could not penetrate the warmth that was growing between David and the colt. Almost imperceptibly the corners of David’s mouth began to rise. The age-old union of man and horse drew them together. In those silent moments the needy colt moved into David’s heart and became his adopted son.

For a time I watched in silence, not wanting to interrupt their unspoken communication. At last I spoke softly to David. “He needs a name.” We made our way over to the young colt, working carefully through the massed bodies of the other youngsters. My friends began the bonding process of gently stroking him all over his deep red hide. David and Petra spoke softly between themselves, and in a few moments it was settled. “I’d like to name him ‘Harry Leslie,’ ” David said, “in honor of my father.” He grinned, stroking the horse’s neck. “But we’ll call him ‘Tal.’ That’s my dad’s nickname.”

Eight months later, Troy and I were trying desperately to get out of town for a few badly needed days off. We had hoped to leave on Thursday. Already it was Saturday afternoon, and we were no closer to our goal. I was on the phone trying to finish up my list of calls. Troy was spinning
around the living room like one of our own whirlwinds with travel bags, food, and camping gear.

Our dogs noisily announced someone’s arrival. I heard Troy call out to David and Petra. His expression was puzzled as he walked out the door.

I was halfway down the hill when I saw that they had brought others with them. A well-built, iron-haired woman towing a little girl and a man I knew only through his son’s descriptions. It was Harry Leslie. David had brought out his parents and his daughter.

Harry’s pale complexion was completely overshadowed by the overwhelming warmth that radiated from his gentle eyes. Standing before Harry and his son, meeting their gazes, was like standing before a wood-burning stove on a brisk day. Their warmth drew you in, and the comfort spread over your heart like a sunrise. Even before I could release Harry’s handshake, I knew that I loved him, just as I loved his son and daughter-in-law.

Troy brought out the colt, Tal, who by now had gained a hundred and fifteen pounds and had grown three inches taller. He tied him to the hitching post, where all of us pitched in to groom him. All but Harry Leslie. He stood a few feet away. I watched him intently, but his expression was difficult to read. While his son’s family gathered around the young horse, Harry simply gazed at his namesake. His eyes were so soft. Harry’s brown eyes held the colt’s brown eyes, unspoken communication pulled them together like a magnet. Slowly, without a word, Harry gently reached out with one finger toward the velvet muzzle that was reaching out toward him. They touched.

In that moment, only the Lord knows what transpired in their hearts. I looked on while man and beast united
with each other, old and young meeting in a symbolic embrace. A gentle, older man passing on his strength, wisdom, and love to a young, green colt. Harry’s eyes seemed to say,
Keep my memory alive, young one. Please love my family with all your heart. Grow up strong; catch their tears for me. Take good care of them, Tal
. Behind my sunglasses, deep within my heart, I could see the torch being passed.

David led Tal into the round pen to show Harry how beautifully the colt moved and to show him the ways in which horses communicate with people. Harry was completely captured! This was something he had only read about. Harry’s granddaughter, Olivia, played about his feet, throwing sticks for the dogs to fetch. Then the little clouds of dust from Tal’s hooves captured her attention, and she climbed up on the gate to see the horse as he cantered by.