Hope Rising (22 page)

The last Saturday in June was our annual tack sale and horse fair—a day of fun and fundraising for the ranch. Thanks to the dedication of our staff and many volunteers, it blossomed into an outstanding event. All of us from the ranch were overwhelmed and at the same time humbled to experience the generosity of our community
as people gave of themselves and their time to help us out. We met so many incredible people and made dozens of new friends.

One kindhearted cowboy, with a reputation for excellence and safety in his horse transportation business, donated for our raffle the use of his deluxe six-horse trailer and his services for a long-distance transport job. Many of the thousands attending the fair purchased raffle tickets, hoping to win the free service. At four o’clock the winning ticket was drawn and announced.

The winner had already gone home, so I had the great pleasure of telephoning her to relay the good news. The phone rang and rang. I hoped I wouldn’t get the answering machine.

At last a young voice answered, and I blurted out, “You won! Sierra, you won the horse transport!” I could hear her squealing excitedly on the other end, and I went on, “I think the Lord is bumping your backside to carry out your rescue plans. Let’s make a date.…”

Within days all of the necessary arrangements had been made. Sierra’s adventure would begin in two weeks.

During the interim, Sierra shared her dream with many of her friends. On the morning of our scheduled rendezvous a dozen other kids showed up, all wishing to accompany us on the trip. Some were coming to lend their support. Others carried cash in their pockets and hoped to follow Sierra’s courageous lead.

From the rising dream of one, a small army had formed behind her to make a difference in any way they could. Without meaning to, Sierra had become a leader of active selflessness for her peers to follow.

We set out together in a caravan led by our new
friends who were donating their time and skills in driving the horse trailer. After traveling a good distance, we all stopped at a rest area on a mountain pass.

Once again I firmly reminded our entourage that they were about to see some devastating things. I warned them not to cry, scream, or act out in any way, no matter how bad it was. I cautioned them that if they couldn’t bear it, to quietly walk away and shed their tears in private. “Our host needs our utmost kindness and respect,” I added. I knew that any judgmental or emotional behavior would not enhance our ability to negotiate the release of desperate horses.

With somber expressions everyone nodded in acknowledgment of what I’d said. I watched as they steeled their young hearts against the unknown that lay ahead. In silence we climbed back into our vehicles and set off on the last leg of the journey.

The kids were remarkably brave and kind. We wandered through the scattered corrals of the rundown ranch with little groups breaking away from time to time, only to return with freshly dried cheeks and newly squared shoulders. Even after viewing gut-wrenching scenes, the girls handled each situation with professionalism and courtesy.

After looking over the horses that were for sale, the kids drew back into a little conference. In an orderly fashion they determined which animals were in the greatest need and discussed what kind of financial offer might be accepted.

Several of us adults stood by only to help facilitate the girls’ decision. None of them had enough money individually to make a difference. But I watched in awe as
these children came together and like flints striking against the steel in each other, combined their sparks to create a fire! By pooling every nickel, dime, and dollar, they had enough financial power to unlock the prison doors for at least some of the horses. They proposed to offer the ranch owner a package deal, and with a little junior high persuasion their offer was accepted.

They did it! At the end of that emotionally-charged, exhausting day, the horse trailer pulled away from that distant rundown ranch with four horses inside. This amazing feat was not executed by law enforcement, a group of outraged adults, or by any animal rights organization. It was accomplished by a handful of little girls.

All because one ordinary girl believed that she could make a difference.

Southbound
 

B
ENEATH A SUN-BAKED
sky, I lifted my damp hat and wiped my forehead. The humid fragrance of the hay field rose to permeate all my senses. Rewarding myself with a deep breath, I quickly replaced my hat and heaved the freshly birthed hay bale up onto the meandering flatbed.

With straining biceps and aching low back, I gazed at the nearly eternal serpentine of bales still to be moved off the field.

Powdery green dust hung inside the barn, making prickly paste on my wet skin. No time to scratch as the impatient hay conveyer chugged and clattered an endless train of bales toward calloused hands. Dusk was overcome by twilight. Stars began to twinkle on the eastern horizon. The hay conveyor rattled on into the night.

Dawn poured over the land in a butter-colored wave. Worn hands lifted newly stacked bales into the hay cart to be ferried to each hungry mouth. Nickering gave way to munching contentment as each equine soul found solace in the new grass hay. One chore done, another to begin.

With manure cart and fork in hand I contemplated one of the great mysteries in my life. The age-old question taunted my tired brain as I shoveled up pile after pile of
metabolized hay. I stood up straight and surveyed my surroundings. Like gathered smooth stones from a dry creek bed, manure lay stacked in infinite, giggling monuments beneath the early morning sun.

In dumbfounded silence I shook my head. The rationale of simple math and physics blew away in the morning breeze. Once again I asked myself, “How can you feed a horse one ton of hay … and know that the south end will make three?”

Miracle
 

W
ITHOUT A
spoken word, Jennifer’s eyes alone told her story. Standing beside her loving mother, she seemed too destroyed to even look at me. When she found the courage to lift her eyes, it was for only an instant. It was not unlike seeing the flash of a falling star. In the split second that her eyes met mine, what I saw chilled me to the bone.

I saw absolute, stunning beauty veiled in hollow, bleeding sorrow. A tiny flame trapped in an icy prison. How could two elements so dichotomous be found in the same place? Her deep blue eyes were magnificently etched with radiating white lines like a star burst. Maybe in another time they would have looked very much like sparkles dancing on the surface of sapphire waters. Now, curtained in sorrow, they looked like nothing other than shattered glass.

Those deep blue shards silently communicated unspeakable pain, anguish, and rejection. Her fourteen years of brutal multileveled abuse had driven her to near destruction. Implosion appeared to be imminent. In one flickering instant I witnessed pain so great that it nearly knocked me backward.
Lord, this child needs a miracle
, I prayed.

Five months passed, and I was still no closer to having
anything that resembled a conversation with Jennifer. The crushing weight of her daily avalanche of despair was taking a heavy toll. She was so deep inside herself that her few words came out one at a time as though they had to be hauled up like stranded rock climbers from the bleak cavern of her soul.

I called her often on the phone, but it was so difficult to know if I had spoken too much or too little. Did she feel pressured to talk? Was I overwhelming her with words? Did she feel pestered instead of loved? Usually after hanging up the phone, I felt frustrated that I couldn’t be what she needed. Was I just one more person in a long line of others who had failed her miserably?

On one particularly cold November day, Jennifer was riding Dove, a chestnut pinto mare, around the arena. Through the ebbing light I watched her intently. On this day, Jennifer was especially somber. Her sorrow was like a living thing, crawling across the space between us, tearing at my heart. Stupidly I asked, “How was your day today?”

After a long while, lifting her gaze from the dust, she simply shook her head and mouthed, “Not good.”

I motioned for her to ride into the center of the arena and meet me so we could talk privately. She brought Dove to a halt, and I put my hand on her knee and looked up into her face. “Honey, what happened?”

She averted her eyes, struggling to voice her thoughts. When at last she did speak, the words were like a rain of broken glass falling on my face and shoulders. “Today at school a group of kids knocked me to the ground.” Jennifer’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard above the background chatter of other kids riding nearby. “They took turns hitting me and throwing dirt on my head. They
were laughing.… They tried to outdo each other, calling me awful names.” Her voice dropped even lower. “Finally someone scratched one of those names into my back with a pin,” she whispered.

Behind us even the fading sunlight seemed too weak to bear this sorrow and quietly bowed below the horizon. Gray darkness crept over the land as together our silent tears slipped to the earth. I reached up and for the first time, Jennifer reached down to me. The little pinto stood quietly as I held the weeping girl against me.

We walked quietly for a while, side by side. The violet twilight gave way to darkness. And there in front of us on the horizon rose the first evening star.

A month later I stood looking up at Jennifer again. This time she was sitting astride one of our most magnificent horses, my own mare, Ele. It had been an easy decision to choose Jennifer as the center attraction of our ranch’s entry into the town’s Christmas parade. She and Ele were completely draped in shimmering red fabric that was adorned with sparkling tinsel and garlands. Rubies would have paled in brilliance next to them. Every breath of wind fluttered their costume in waves of radiant crimson. In keeping with the “Christmas gift” theme of our ten horse-and-rider teams in the parade, Jennifer, Ele, and I were decorated to represent the “gift of love.” It seemed appropriate since Jennifer had known so much of the opposite in her short life.

While waiting for our turn to enter the parade route, several passing people saw Jennifer, stopped short, and began photographing her. I smiled up at her. “See, you’re so beautiful they can’t help but take your picture!” She responded nervously with a weak little upturn of her lips.

Finally it was our turn to step forward into the jubilant fray. Our ten brilliantly decorated horses moved ahead, patiently allowing themselves to be led while carrying a costumed rider, surrounded by a glittering entourage of five or more vibrantly dressed children.

Jennifer’s job—the job of all the children in our group—was to make as many people smile as possible. I set out leading Ele down the parade route, and I looked up at Jennifer to remind her to smile and wave.

Immediately I realized that would be difficult for her—she looked like a newborn fawn frozen silent and stiff by sheer terror.
One step at a time
, I thought.

After about a quarter of a mile, I noticed that one of Jennifer’s hands had left the security of the reins and was making a hesitant attempt at waving. My heart smiled.