Hope Rising (16 page)

I felt a shiver of doubt.
Lord, is this okay?
I made my way to where Mary’s husband was watching and questioned him with a look that plainly asked, “Are you sure this is all right?”

He shrugged and smiled, shaking his head. In a deep, gentle voice he simply said, “She never ceases to surprise me.” His smile touched me like a warm breeze.

Immediately I sensed how important this event was. This could be Mary’s defining moment. I just needed to
get out of the way and let it happen.
Lord, lead the way
, I prayed silently.

They started out walking along the rail with Kelsie’s tiny form marching steadily at the horse’s shoulder. I could hear Mary and Kelsie talking and laughing. After several laps, Mary asked her gelding to trot. I could feel my breath catch with every rise and fall of her rusty posting within the saddle. Then—and this is something we rarely allow on a first visit—she began to canter.

Lap after lap, she flew around the arena. Friends came to the fence; cameras were brought out; even Mary’s children reined in their horses and watched in amazement. We all did. Time seemed to stop. I was certain that angels were watching.

Mary’s face glowed. The shadow of her illness faded beneath the radiance of those moments. The threat of death became no more than a dusty specter trampled under the horse’s cantering hooves. Mary was no longer a sick woman near death. She was now just like any other mom riding with her children. In that moment she was free.

“Look at me! I’m flying! I’m flying!” she gasped, a jubilant declaration for all to hear. It felt as if she had thrown a boulder into a pond and we were all helpless to stand against the tidal wave of joy that thundered over us.

Finally, Mary slowed her horse back to a walk. I moved out to congratulate her, and then reached up and hugged her tightly in celebration. After a long moment of consideration, I told her that the horse she was riding had once nearly died. I pulled back his mane to show her the jagged ten-inch scar on his shoulder.

Mary’s face grew somber. Long seconds passed. Then slowly she sat up straight and quietly pulled down the front of her pink tank top. “So did I,” she said, revealing her own horrific scar—the unmistakable mark of someone who had survived having their chest split in half.

I could feel my eyes rapidly filling with tears. “Look at that,” I half whispered. “The two of you are a
perfect
match.”

Mary leaned over the gelding’s neck and hugged him with both arms. That image of woman and horse—both survivors, both triumphant over their affliction—made a permanent imprint on my heart. What a perfect example of those who can truly wear a scar instead of allowing the scar to wear them. The blue shadows on Mary’s face had vanished beneath her dazzling smile. While resting her cheek on the gelding’s mane, she closed her eyes and softly said to him, “Thank you, dear one, thank you.”

I pulled Kelsie into a strong hug, kissing the top of her head. Did this impish fourteen-year-old understand what she had just done—the remarkable gift that her impulsive action had given Mary? Still under my arm, Kelsie felt my gaze and looked up at my face. Her mouth spread into a wide grin. She did know—she knew
exactly!
As happens so often on the ranch, I had a fresh realization of how much I need to learn from the kids that surround me.

I dropped my gaze, shaking my head with a laugh. And then I saw them. On Kelsie’s feet were the silliest pair of high-heeled white sandals that I had ever seen. Her filthy used-to-be-white socks showed through the flimsy open-toed straps.

Kelsie was in midclomp and heading out of the arena when she saw me staring at her ridiculous footwear. Looking down she quietly said, “I knew that riding without shoes was against the rules. So—” an angelic smile twinkled across her face—“I gave her mine.”

Black Diamond
 

T
HE TINY FILLY
was the runt of an already emaciated herd at the breeding ranch. Within the corral of fifteen yearlings she was jostled and bounced about like a bewildered pinball.

Hunger had forced all of the young horses to search our hands for anything that might fill their drawn bellies. But the little filly hung back, not even trying to come to us. My heart sank. Brutal experience had taught her that she would be pushed away by her taller and stronger peers.

I was struck by the way she held her head. Normally, horses in such a pitiful state will hold their heads in a neutral position to conserve what little energy they still possess. This filly held her head curiously high, not in alarm or fear, but more like … royalty. Even within starvation’s grasp, she carried herself with pride and dignity—as if she held a secret, a promise known only to her. Against all odds she was managing to stay alive. And she appeared to live her life knowing something that was still yet to be.

In spite of her horribly neglected state, this filly was a shocking beauty—a deep black bay with a fine blaze and four short white socks. Her delicate face was dramatically
dished in classic Arabian fashion from her enormous, heavily lashed eyes down to her teacup-sized muzzle. Her highly sculpted ears tapered into delicate tips that pointed toward each other. There was no doubt about the quality of her breeding.

She’s a little black diamond
, I thought.
A diamond in the rough
.

The filly took a few steps away from the herd, and my heart sank even further. Her front legs were bad, her hind legs even worse. Her pasterns, the narrow joint above the hoof, were so weak and strained that they slanted backward at an abnormal angle. A normal joint angle is approximately forty-five degrees from the ground—hers were parallel to the ground or even lower. “Oh, baby,” I said under my breath as I watched her turn away.

It became clear that the owners, who were showing us around, didn’t live on this property with their horses. Nor did they seem to mind their deplorable condition. Silently we moved on to the next corral, continuing our “tour.” I saw little more and said even less. Outwardly I offered just enough conversation to be polite. Inwardly my heart was torn open as I cried for the hollow-eyed young horses I had just left.

Lord, show me what to do
, I prayed, and I felt my heart begin to rise. Nearly all of the horses we had seen—fifty-seven to be exact—were for sale.
If this is meant to be, Lord, give us the finances to make an offer this breeder will accept
.

The vigor of summer gave way to the glory of fall. Brilliant leaves drifted to earth like a multicolored ticker-tape celebration. Then winter came to the high desert, pristine and silent, with a heavy blanket of snow.

It should have been restful, but the still-white beauty
did little to soothe my aching heart. The owner had refused all our earlier offers to buy the release of any of the horses. I knew those youngsters were still out there. I knew they were still hungry.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to know what was happening to them. Cautiously navigating my truck through the icy conditions, I drove back down the road that led to their frozen corral. I saw that the yearlings had been moved into an open field with the adult mares. That simply meant they faced greater and stronger competition for any feed that might be provided.

But the deep snow lay undisturbed around the corral like a silent witness. There were no tracks to indicate that any feed had been delivered. There was none in the corral. The snow inside lay desolate and empty. Devoid of any human presence, the little water remaining in the trough was now frozen into a solid block.

I returned twice more in the next few days. Still there were no tracks except my own. It was clear that during this bitter season the entire herd was going without food or water. My dismay only increased when the herd began to move silently toward me in anticipation of being fed.

Then I saw her. Black Diamond, as I had begun to call the proud little filly, had deteriorated to such a degree that she had trouble negotiating the snow. Even from where I stood, I could clearly see that she was beginning to stagger.

I knew that this facility was under investigation for animal abuse. I knew the investigating officer and the attending vet. I also knew that legal wheels turn slowly. These horses needed help immediately. Not tomorrow, not next week … 
today
. Now was the time for action.

I quickly came up with the idea for a pilot project for
the ranch that would require many young horses. Because of the criminal investigation, I had great difficulty reaching the breeding facility by phone. But as soon as I was able, I called them to introduce the program. It would involve young horses and teenage girls. I would train the girls who would, in turn, train the horses. They would grow up together in united pairs. If both were suitable, they might later endurance race as a team.

Our ranch, I said, unfortunately lacked the financial resources to start a program of this type without some help. I carefully explained that I knew they wanted to disperse their herd. Would they be willing to sell some of their younger horses at a reduced price?

After an agonizingly slow week of negotiations, we came to a fair deal for the release of five of their young stud colts. But the black bay filly was not for sale. Under the right conditions, I was told, she would be worth nearly ten thousand dollars. For her sake alone I continued my communications with the breeding ranch.

The year moved on, and softer breezes slowly began to replace the polar bite we had grown used to in the air. My heaviest winter coat spent more time on the hook by the front door as I began to reach for a lighter one. Along with the milder weather, I received a call that warmed my heart. A youth group from near the Oregon Coast had made arrangements to spend part of their spring break to volunteer on our ranch. They wanted to offer all they had—their hands, their time, and their love.

The breeder’s call came on our cell phone one cold day in early spring as Troy and I were driving home. The black bay filly was now for sale at a reasonable price. I glanced at Troy and mouthed, “Black Diamond is for
sale!”

“Yes, we still want her!” I stressed. But we needed to do a thorough check of our financial resources first. Troy and I had already discussed the issue, and both of us felt strongly that we wanted to do whatever possible to help this tiny, broken filly. We also agreed that we needed to do what was financially best for the horses that we already had to support.

Troy stopped the truck as we pulled into our long drive, and I stepped out on cue to pick up our mail from the box. Back in the cab I held my hands in front of the heater vent as I flipped through the day’s letters.

One small handwritten envelope caught my eye. Slicing it open with my thumb, I found inside a simple note from the youth group that was soon to arrive. “We’ve never done anything like this before,” it began. They felt compelled, the letter said, to send us a gift. The whole group—leaders and young people—had prayed together about how much to send. Strangely enough, they had all chosen exactly the same sum.

“We’re not sure what this is to be used for,” the note continued. “But we
are
certain of the amount.”

Enclosed with the note was a folded check, which had slipped into my lap as I read. Now I picked it up and opened it.

My jaw dropped.

It was precisely the amount needed to rescue our little black diamond.

“Okay, Lord, I believe that’s clear enough,” I said quietly, handing the note and check to Troy.

His eyebrows shot straight up, and laughing with me he said, “Alrighty then!”

We brought the filly home the next day.

Like a thirsty sponge, she started to fill out immediately. Her increase in weight was second only to her increase in strength. Even her weakened pasterns began to improve. Before our eyes, this little rough-cut diamond began to sparkle in the light of loving care.

Several weeks later the youth group arrived for their spring break. The sky might have been gray and gloomy, but the youth group was not. The kids tumbled out of their vans like a laughing mountain stream, thrilled to be able to stretch after their long drive. Their presence became a gift to us even before we knew their names.