Hope Rising (27 page)

In the mornings I divide my time between two health clubs in neighboring towns. I work as a personal trainer at the Athletic Club of Bend, and at the Athletic Club of Sisters I instruct a difficult workout class—affectionately dubbed “Boot Camp” by participants. Afterward, from noon until dark, I have the privilege of being the director of our ranch. Even though my schedule is demanding, I feel blessed to have jobs that I love so much. But between Troy’s work and mine, we see little of each other from April to October. We try hard to set aside “oasis” times for ourselves and each other, but the reality of running two businesses and the ranch programs from our home can be crushing.

Sometimes a brief oasis can be found in just riding together in the cab of our truck. That was the case one perfect September evening, warm and still. We had just finished hauling hay at the end of one of our “Atlas-imitation” days and sat in near silence as the truck chugged up the last hill toward our house. We were exhausted down to our very souls.

Troy pulled up in front of the garage. He turned the ignition key off—and just sat there, staring straight ahead,
unmoving. His stonelike profile was etched with fatigue and grit from the day’s work.

I didn’t feel much like moving either. The momentary rest felt like cool water on my sweaty face.

I looked again at Troy and suddenly realized that this was no ordinary rest. His face was hollow and drawn as if in tremendous pain.

“Troy? What’s wrong?” My words tripped out and sprawled uselessly before him. I could see as well as feel him withdraw to some place inside himself. His eyes were glassed over with exhaustion. My stomach twisted as I waited for him to speak.

He looked down. Tears streaked down his brown cheeks. Although deeply tenderhearted, Troy was always so strong. Fear gripped my throat.

“Today,” he began, his words coming out with agonizing slowness, “it took all of my willpower
not
to go to the bank and empty my accounts … and just leave.” His voice trailed off to a whisper as he dropped his face into his hands. “It’s too much for me, Kim. I can’t do this anymore …”

Such was the previous season of my life. I learned so much about what it really means to run the hurdles of life. Challenges rose on nearly every front—and with them heavy doses of fear.

In a single season we faced financial ruin and could have lost the ranch. One of the Lord’s precious lambs—our new young leader, Jenie—might easily have been killed. We were struck by a minitornado that tore through an arena full of kids. Several of my horse family—including my
equine soul mate—were scattered and lost in the wilderness of the Cascade Mountains. Everything we have worked so hard to create could have burned to the ground from a single lightning strike. Two of my angels in horsehair were stricken with rare—almost unknown—conditions. And the love of my life, my best friend, my husband—the pillar who supports my heart—nearly collapsed.

My home, my ranch, my family, friends, children, horses, and husband—all faced destruction. All the beams of strength in my life were attacked. I was challenged down to the very foundations of my faith. And the questions came, aimed like flaming arrows at my soul.
If God is so good, why did He let all of this happen to you? If He loves you so much, why did He hurt you so deeply? If God is really in control, why is your life so out of control?
Like hissing darts they rained down on my spirit, a volley launched to destroy my faith, my love, my peace, my joy.

Hope, shining like a beacon, can be an easy target for such evil missiles—when it is founded solely on human strength. But true hope has its foundation buried deep within the solid Rock of Jesus Christ. I stood through that season—and I continue to stand—not by any strength that I possess in myself, but only by the strength that has been given to me by a faithful God.

I am not a powerful woman, but I believe in a powerful God. Instead of cowering under the hail of fiery lies, I lifted my sword of truth, the Word of God, and began to fight back. Every arrow, shot with the intention of maiming and destroying, shattered into flaming pieces around my feet.

Like a lighthouse guiding those who are lost, true hope shines on, and even the blackest darkness cannot
overcome the power of its light. Even death itself cannot overcome hope. When it is built on the Rock, it will stand. Even my own death cannot separate me from hope. Because of that truth, my heart has risen from being a victim to becoming a victor.

Yes, financially speaking, we could have lost the ranch. We could have—but we didn’t. Because God is faithful. The finances came when we needed them the most.

Yes, Jenie could have been killed right before my eyes. No endeavor—no matter how lovingly motivated—is worth risking the life of a child. There has never been a time when I felt more pressure to close the ranch. But truth fought back! Risk exists in
all
the things we do. Our fear of the “what ifs” must never drive us backward into complacency or paralysis. Or allow us to forget God’s faithfulness.

Jenie’s nose was broken—but not her faith in Christ. She went on to share her faith inside the quiet walls of a surgeon’s office when her doctor momentarily stepped from behind the cool curtain of professionalism to become a seeker who simply needed to hear the truth. Today, the beauty of Jenie’s reconstructed nose is one step closer to matching the incredible inner beauty that radiates from her heart.

Yes, children, leaders, adults, visitors, and horses could all have been hurt by the massive dust devil that tore through our arena. But Kelsie, with her usual amazing presence of mind, threw her arms around her horse’s neck as the twister sucked her from the saddle. Hanging on tightly, she kicked her horse into a leaping gallop, and they escaped unharmed.

At random chairs began dropping from the sky. But
no one was hit. The colt righted himself without damage. And Grandma, with the wisdom of those who have lived a lot of life, took it all in stride. A hasty accounting revealed that everyone had emerged from the remarkable ordeal unscathed. Everyone there was a witness to God’s faithfulness.

I had pushed my hair back and replaced my hat and then made my way down to the family I’d left by the tack room. They were huddled together, pale and wide-eyed. With a ragged, exaggerated smile, I said, “So! Where were we?”

Yes, my horses were scattered into the wilderness. They could have been hurt or killed in any number of ways. But by God’s faithfulness, they were not. Miraculously the last two missing ones—including my beloved Ele—were found many miles away, having navigated certain equine disaster without a single scratch. More arrows, more lies, fell to the ground in smoldering pieces.

Yes, our property—and everything built upon it—could have been destroyed by fire. Our ranch
was
struck by lightning—twice! An astonished Forrest, one of our ranch volunteers, recounted actually seeing a jagged bolt hit the ground in the main horse paddock. A fraction of an instant later, a second bolt smashed into the corner of our hay barn. But God is faithful. Even though the corner support beam of the barn was blown into bits and nearly all the ranch electrical systems were destroyed,
nothing
burned. Nothing except another lie turning to charred embers at my feet.

Yes, our horses were struck with rare and potentially lethal conditions. Once again, I raised my sword of faith
and hope. Did they die? No! Because God is faithful. They both have fully recovered and continue to live their lives as gentle servants and friends of our ranch kids.

Yes, the man of my dreams, the love of all my days, buckled under the pressure of our chosen life. He could have left; he could have fled the titanic waves of stress that currently roll through his life.

But he didn’t … because God is faithful. The Lord heard the humble pleas of a simple woman who prays for her husband every day. Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and heart to heart, Troy and I have reestablished ourselves. Today we are a stronger force together than we ever were before.

All of these flaming arrows that were launched to destroy have only added fuel to the fire that burns in my heart—because I know that faith grows only when it’s forced to. I stand on the knowledge that God is
faithful
. Supported by that fact, I kick at the smoldering embers that have fallen at my feet. Pitiful little sparks scatter into the air, flaring weakly before disintegrating into wisps of nothing more than smoke. With my hands and my breath I blow the ashes away and smooth off the rock of truth on which I stand.

Such was this last season.

So, once again I stand up to all of the hurdles on the track of life. I eye them from a distance as I warm up for another season. For I have learned something vital from this last stretch of time and those before it. It’s not as important that I clear the hurdles in perfect form as it is that I just keep running.

Throughout the race there are times when the hardships
of life weigh on every side, drawing and dividing faith and strength. It is hard to focus on the task at hand, even harder to see the finish. Entangled steps weave and falter in a desperate attempt for endurance—and answers.

There is an answer.

The real tragedy would be to stop in the middle of the race. A momentary inspection of wounds is one thing, but to give up in the middle of life is another. For those who will simply commit to running the race, putting one foot in front of the other, no matter how big or small the step—for those, in the end, the victory will come.

Because God is faithful.

The Choice
 

T
O MUCH OF
our life seems to just happen. We have all shared moments of throwing our hands in the air in utter dismay of a raucous day’s offerings. Yet in reality, most of our life is what we
choose
for it to be. As violently as external forces push, we are still the master of our own will.

Difficulties, hurdles, hardships, whatever name we know them by, one thing is certain—they visit us all. No life is immune from suffering. As certain as we breathe, we
will
know pain. It is a shapeless void that shifts into as many faces as humanity itself. It has no sense of justice or timing. Like a wall of fire, pain rises where it chooses, consuming whatever it can. It is a famine that gnaws at the soul.

Mounting like impenetrable black fog, pain envelops everything—light, love, hope. It is a dark chasm of loneliness. It is a precipice of despair. It is a wailing child collapsed in a barren orchard.

The view from within this lifeless place is the same in any direction—it is all ash. It wraps around us like a black desolate ring encircling our impoverished soul. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It becomes the truest definition of being surrounded.

When our hope falls to its knees and takes its last gasp
before death, there is an answer. It is simple. It lies free for every soul to choose. When you are surrounded, instead of anxiously looking from side to side, look up. Change your view with a new perspective.

Look up and see what the Maker sees. Instead of a destroyed circle, He sees a vital clearing where the light of truth can penetrate. Instead of a ring of ash, He sees previous snaring distractions burned into usable nutrients. Instead of barrenness, He sees a circle where something enduring can grow, something that is beautiful, something that is permanent.

God doesn’t see wild flames on every side lapping at our souls. He sees cleansing fire that consumes the dross of complacency. He sees hearts tempered with strength, purified like gold.

God doesn’t see a descending black fog encircling its shrouded victims with the icy grip of despair. He sees a temporary veil that encourages faith to rise out of meandering convenience and be galvanized with power into a force that moves mountains.

God doesn’t see a hungry precipice yawning open to swallow us whole. He sees the perfect opportunity for hope to unfurl its wings and soar free over logic that tells us what is and isn’t possible.

Even the utter devastation of death’s finality before God is not final. It is His desire that our loss will embolden and motivate us to love those who remain with even greater passion and selflessness.

God didn’t see a ring of cottony, fallen hair surrounding a horse near death. He saw a golden halo circling like a wedding band the very hearts on which His miraculous love was soon to fall.

When we feel like we’re surrounded, it is only because we truly are—we are surrounded by His love.

It is true, the pain that we feel in this life is certain. What is equally certain is how we choose to feel about the pain. It can destroy us—or define us.

Like standing on a mountainous trail, we can
choose
which way to go. We can
choose
where we end up. When confronted by pain, we can
choose
to take the descending trail that most often leads to a dark and lonely place, pitted with mires of helplessness, hopelessness, despair.