Bridge Called Hope (17 page)

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but let my thoughts and emotions soar.
Lord, this could have turned out so many different ways. Thank You for this
 … all
of this.

While contemplating all that had happened, it occurred to me that, just like our once unwanted and unloved property, trees, horses, and kids, so too this horse had come to us in a “superficial” state of disrepair. If she were truly revealed today as all that she would become tomorrow—just like our property, trees, horses, and kids—I would be completely unable to afford her; I would have no access into her life. It was precisely her “ugliness” that became the common key.

It was precisely
my
“ugliness phase,” the season of time in my life when I was struggling to grow through the tragic loss of both my parents, that prepared my heart for all that was to come. I didn’t realize it then, but that was the time when I was being “readied” to reach out to those around me who were struggling through their own “ugly phases.”

Perhaps the most important thing to remember about an “ugly phase” within ourselves and those around us is that it’s just that … a
phase
. It has a beginning and an end.

A phase can be much like the burned-up pine trees that Troy was once dispatched to take to the dump. Even though they had been through a fire and looked completely dead, when
he scratched their bark … they were still green inside. While blackened and destroyed on the outside … they were still
alive
on the inside. Troy saw what they could become if given the opportunity to grow through their blackness. With time and care these same “throw-away” trees have grown through their charred past and grace our property with beauty to this day. I am so intensely grateful that in the times of my life when I was blackened and dead on the outside … the Lord did not cast me away; He knew that there was life within me still.

What an incredible honor and privilege it has been to follow the lead of my Lord and reach through the flames to pull out those who might temporarily be a little blackened and ugly on the outside, while knowing for a fact that there is life within them still. Just like me many years ago, what they needed most was a helping hand and someone to truly see them and believe in all that they
could
become.

It was the largest horse rescue in Oregon’s history. And I was proud to be driving home with the most desperate, blackened, ugly horse of the entire herd. She was just like me … and I couldn’t wait to see all that she was to become.

Cole, age 5, when trying to explain
how exciting riding is: “When I ride a horse,
it just makes my blood wiggle!”

L
ove matters … perhaps more than we know. Pure love, refined of all the dross the world associates with it, changes our very foundations.

It is easy to become so caught up in how we think certain things should happen that we fail to realize that healing, release, forgiveness … “life” happens outside the little box of our understanding. Love can be like that.

Phoenix—whose name had been lovingly softened into a more feminine “Phoebe”—had finally come home. After her twilight-hour rescue and months in an intensive care facility, she was, at last, living on the ranch. Even after months of extensive nursing, she was still so shocking to look at that we prepared a special “recovery” paddock for her behind the main arena. This usually gave the staff and me a bit more time to verbally prepare our visitors for what they were about to see when meeting our newest charge.

The rampant lanugo that had once covered her body to conserve heat was now beginning to loosen its grip in the warmer days of spring. Handfuls of nearly three-inch-long wads of greasy hair were starting to fall off her body. Like an awkward puzzle, each newly revealed “piece” gave a tiny glimpse of the slender horse that was beginning to emerge.

Although she had been handled a great deal since her rescue, she was still in the process of becoming socialized with people. Much of Phoebe’s early care was quite unpleasant for her, as it consisted of a myriad of vaccination and deworming cycles. Despite vetting discomforts, she was learning to trust. Daily it was becoming clearer to this little horse that regardless of her many unpleasant clinical procedures, people were generally kind and desired to give her much good will.

As Phoebe continued her quiet rehabilitation, the ranch staff and I started to see a very interesting pattern materialize. After her rescue from nearly fatal starvation and neglect, we wished to bring comfort, acceptance, relaxation, and general hygiene back to this orphan by simply spending time brushing her. Because brushing a horse is intrinsically a very nurturing act, on several occasions I encouraged women I knew—who had been through much abuse themselves—to just go and spend time brushing Phoebe.

There were many instances where I witnessed these same abused, battered, and neglected women come out of Phoebe’s paddock in tears. When I asked them if everything was all right, to my surprise, they gave me remarkably similar answers: “I know that this just seems so silly … I really can’t explain it … but when I am next to that little horse … just being with her … this small creature who has survived so much hardship … somehow she just seems to help me believe that I’m going to be all right too.”

I knew exactly what these women were trying to communicate—because when I spent time with Phoebe, I felt the same way.

There was no denying it. Something about this simple little horse was changing many of those who spent time with her.

From its very humble beginning, the ranch has fervently
sought to serve those in need. Our ministry works hard to provide a unique place where the broken—broken of any kind—can find healing. Within our community, we shoulder with nearly every organization that deals with youth and family.

One group that we take great joy in serving is a local juvenile justice facility. Teenage boys work hard through a predetermined “levels” system to earn the right to come out to our ranch. For years, we have come to know them as being a truly spectacular group of young men. They are always polite, helpful, and willing to assist us with any task we lay before them. It has been my general observation that they are all really great guys who, for the most part, have had very weak parenting … especially from their fathers. For most, it appears that there has never been an upright, moral man in their lives to simply show them the way.

I
love
these guys … and they know it! It is such an inspiration to see them come to the ranch with a totally “clean slate” and watch them practice who they wish to become in the future. I rarely know anything about them or their background, so in my eyes, they get to rehearse being the perfect gentlemen.

Our day was just getting started when Sevi and Chloe, my two blue-heelers, announced that the boys had arrived slightly early. At the ranch, we do not wish to begin any day without first praying for every soul who might walk up our hill. I silently dismissed myself from the circle of bowed heads and gently closed the bunkhouse door behind me. I could see that there were about six young men walking with their counselor into the main yard of the ranch.

A few of the boys I knew well; some I did not know at all. Of the scattered details that I was aware of, it was my understanding that one of the boys coming today—I was told his name was Matt—would be here for his first time. He had been
born to a mother who, perhaps during her pregnancy, loved drugs more than him. Her substance abuse had left him with a misshapened arm and hand. I was informed that he was an amazing young man who had grown up fighting with the world trying to prove that … he was not a
freak
.

As I walked down to meet the boys, I welcomed them with some goofy “Kim” greeting. Truly, I don’t even know what I said; what I do know is that it is always my intention to make the boys feel “special” and at ease.

Introductions flowed easily between us. The boys stood in a loose circle, each acknowledging me in his own distinctive way. A few gave me a hug, some shook my hand, and a couple spoke their name and looked straight at the ground. As I continued to welcome the group, I was acutely aware of how much Matt did not want me to see his arm.

While acting completely oblivious to his “uniqueness” and treating him just like any other boy who comes to the ranch, I could feel my heart dropping like a very heavy anchor within my chest. I could not even begin to understand what his life must be like—the quick glances that snap back into long stares, the misguided questions, the torment from his weak-hearted peers.

This boy, who was hardly a boy in stature because he was already taller and heavier then I was, wanted me to see him for … him … not as the kid who was in any way different from any of the other guys in the circle.

His eyes told the story. They were a beautiful, clear blue that seemed to balance tenuously between acceptance and defiance. He very much wanted my approval and acceptance of him; otherwise he would have had no reason to hide his arm from me. Yet, if I were to disrespect
him in any way, even a minimal way, I am certain that his defiance would rise up like a bitter shield of defense … once again attempting to deflect the crushing force of rejection.