Hope Rising (14 page)

“That’s no good,” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the blackness of his barn. He returned carrying two small, well-used saddles. “A kid’s gotta’ have her own gear. Either of these outta’ do,” he said with his trademark smile. “My boys’ve grown outta them; no reason
they shouldn’t work for her.” And he laid a saddle over each of my arms.

After a thankful hug and a kiss to the rancher, Troy and I made our way home, pulling behind us a very remarkable gift. Snowflakes blurred in and out of our headlight beams, and I couldn’t help but feel that each one represented a special blessing in my life. Hundreds of thousands of little gifts, each unique and different, each adding to the unmistakable foundation of joy in my heart.
Yes, Lord, I have so
much
to be thankful for
.

“Who is this?” Robin asked, her wide blue eyes peering at me through her tousled blond hair.

My answer was nonchalant. “He’s a pony that needed a new home.”

She stroked him tenderly, then tilted her head up at me and thoughtfully asked, “Can I ride him?”

“Sure,” I said, turning away. I didn’t trust my expression to conceal our secret.

Following a light ride and much grooming, we placed a special pan of feed for the pony on the picnic table. While he ate, Robin lay limp in the curve of his back, her arms and legs draped on either side. Her blond head was cradled in his heavy black mane. She was facing away from us as her mother and I approached, and we stumbled into her private conversation.

“You are the most beautiful pony I have ever seen,” Robin whispered. “I hope that someday I can have a pony just like you. I love you, Dancer,” she added, while trying to hug his neck. From somewhere above, I know angels
smiled. I silently reached for her mother’s hand and together we quietly walked back to the barn.

“Hello,” Robin’s father answered amid squealing children. He and I chatted briefly, and then I told him we needed privacy and to go into the bedroom and close the door.

“I have something I need to tell you,” I began. “Do you remember when I told you about the golden pony?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

“Do you remember when I said that if God was in it, He would provide for it?”

“Yes,” he said, more as a question than an answer.

Not wanting to leave him in suspense, I forged ahead. “I want you to know that your wife, children, and I have been praying. I’m calling to tell you that something remarkable has happened.” I heard only silence.

I could only imagine, after an introduction like that, what must have been going through his mind. I continued. “Within one day of our last conversation, seven people donated enough money for us to buy the golden pony.” More silence. “The pony is safe and now living on our ranch. I’m calling to tell you that we have purchased the pony solely to give to you … so you can give him to Robin for Christmas.”

This time, I waited for a reply.

When his voice finally came through, it was choked with emotion. “Why … why are you doing this for me? You don’t even know me; why are you doing this? I’m not sure
what to say.…”

“I’m doing this for you because long ago someone did it for me, and my life was saved because of it. Maybe someday you will have a chance to do something like this for someone else. That’s how this works, you know,” I said in a soft voice. My imagination pictured him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands as silent tears fell to the floor.

Finally, in a weak voice, he managed to say, “Thank you.”

Christmas morning dawned, crackling with expectation. The air was crisp with winter’s grasp. Our plans had been laid before the family drove up our hill. Robin, having been led to think that she was bringing me gifts for the ranch, joyfully presented me with a hoof pick, a little brush, and a tiny red saddle pad. I knelt among the children and gave them all hugs. While I was still holding them, their father led from the barn a beautifully groomed pony dressed in red garlands. A note was tied around his neck with red ribbons. The children all looked up at the pony with bewilderment. They honestly didn’t know what was happening. “Hurry, go read the note!” their mother prompted Robin with excitement.

Carefully she opened the note. Immediately, her little blond head shot up to look at her dad’s face, then at the pony, then at her mother. Without words she was asking, “Is this true?”

With a deep smile, her father finally said, with a nod, “He’s yours.”

Disbelief quickly melted into a huge astonished smile.
If hugs and kisses for Dancer had been snowflakes, he would have been buried beneath their blizzard.

At last Robin nestled her tear-streaked face into the soft golden curve of Dancer’s neck, small fingers clutching tight little handfuls of his long coat. It was a gesture that seemed to proclaim, “I’ll never let you go.”

I looked into the pony’s face and I wondered: As Robin had been dreaming of him, had he been dreaming of her? Wasn’t this what every horse desired—to be the sun in a child’s sky? Isn’t it everyone’s dream to be loved, without conditions attached, every day of their life?

Before, he was nothing more than a golden pony. A crumbling little soul left to stand abandoned on a desolate hill. By the power alone of a child’s love, he was transformed into a priceless pony of gold.

It’s Good
 

T
HEIR VAN WAS
the first to make tracks in the freshly fallen snow on the ranch’s common area. The air was still rich with its distinct cold fragrance. Gray mist began to settle around us as a mother, a therapist, and I gathered around the van door to receive the child waiting inside.

I had talked with the mother before their visit and learned that Jamie couldn’t speak, nor could she walk without assistance. Her physical movements were jerky and exaggerated. Her fine motor skills appeared only in random bursts, like the taps and bars of a Morse code message. Bacterial meningitis had attacked her central nervous system. By her seventh day of life, the frontal lobes of her brain had been destroyed, she was on oxygen, and in constant seizures. The doctors quietly prepared Jamie’s parents for her death.

I understood that Jamie spent nearly her first year of life in the hospital and survived eighteen surgeries. I asked her mother how she did it; how did she keep her emotions from spinning into a shattered mess? With simple wisdom she said, “I had to just keep reminding myself that God loves her more than I do. Through the darkest times, that was enough.”

I peeked into the van and gave Jamie a wide smile.
This was our first meeting, and her eyes locked searchingly onto my face. Her bewildered look confirmed that she didn’t know or recognize me.

A special belt with handles was fitted around Jamie’s waist, so that others could assist her. Simply getting out of the van was an enormously difficult task for her. But her face was bright, and my heart received a powerful lesson from this struggling eleven-year-old as clearly as if she had been able to speak the words: Life is good.

Through the mist, I led out one of our Arab geldings, a gray named Lightfoot. Like Jamie, he, too, had a triumphant spirit. We had rescued him years ago from a desperate situation. He had been forced to live by eating straw and as a result developed a life-threatening intestinal impaction. We had found him on a snowy evening like this one, lying on the ground. His limbs were rigid with agonizing pain as he thrashed in the terminal stages of colic. After many days of intensive care, he not only survived certain death but soared beyond it to become a top ten endurance racing horse.

I thought Lightfoot would be a good match for Jamie. With all that they both had overcome in their lives, I was certain they would relate to each other on a level beyond my understanding.

At the hitching post, our little team gathered around the gelding. Ami, one of my dedicated senior staff, was helping, along with Jamie’s therapist. With our hands over Jamie’s, we manipulated her into holding a brush so that she could groom Lightfoot’s damp winter coat. She allowed us to puppet her movements through the whole process until the horse was tacked up and ready to ride.

I wasn’t sure how much Jamie understood of what she
had just accomplished or of what was about to happen. I wanted so much for her to comprehend that this was a kind, living creature willing to share some special time with her. We all moved into the arena, and I guided Jamie until she was standing directly in front of Lightfoot. She blinked up at what must have looked like huge nostrils. The gelding’s misty breath billowed around her tiny form. Gently I stroked his upper lip.

Jamie seemed intrigued. I bent to kiss Lightfoot’s soft muzzle. As I pulled back, the girl leaned in. Inch by inch, she drew closer to his velvety nose. His heavy streams of breath poured past her pink cheeks, enveloping her clothing in a damp silver gloss. She pursed her lips in a preformed kiss, nearly touching her nose to his. But then, instead of a peck on his upper lip, she slipped out the tip of her tongue and licked him! A simple kiss, it seemed, would not be good enough to explore this strange new surface! Lightfoot received her unusual caress with warm brown eyes.

All of us helped to lift Jamie into the saddle. Her face registered nothing but puzzlement. Ami led Lightfoot slowly around the arena, with the therapist balancing Jamie on one side and me on the other. Snow had started to fall again, great wet flakes that coated our heads and shoulders. Jamie’s mother, heavily bundled up against the cold, stood watching by the arena rail.

We had just completed our second circuit around the arena when we heard a sudden strange sound over our muffled footsteps. I looked around. There it was again. Jamie’s voice! For the first time in our presence, she was vocalizing!

Looking up at her through the falling snow, I saw that she had pushed her hands together and was bumping the horse’s mane with them. Her face glowed with excitement, and with each bump of her hands she uttered an odd little “guh” sound.

Fascinated, we watched as an amazing scene unfolded before us. As Jamie’s bumping became more insistent, her vocalizations grew louder and louder. Soon her whole body was adding emphasis to her exclamations. With each “guh” she lunged forward, driving her locked arms against the patient gelding’s neck. None of us were quite certain what to make of this rousing display of intense emotion. We smiled at Jamie’s rising enthusiasm but struggled to understand what she was trying to tell us.

“Do you like this?” I asked, smiling up at her. She turned toward the sound of my voice and, with her mouth wide open, revealed all of her teeth in an enormous beaming smile. I laughed out loud.

We rounded the top end of the arena, and as we approached the girl’s mother again, each step seemed to inspire more eagerness in the brilliant-faced child. “Guh, guh, guh!” she nearly shouted.

“What is she saying?” I asked her mother when we were close enough.

She didn’t answer. I looked across at her over Lightfoot’s back to see if she had heard me. She had. Her face was streaming with tears; her hands were tightly clasped under her chin. She drew a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “She’s telling you,” she said, “ ‘it’s good. It’s good. It’s good!’ ”

Lord, Have Mercy