Hope Rising (17 page)

After we had stowed their gear upstairs in the barn, we all met down below. I told them how grateful we were that they had offered to give up their precious free time to come and help support the ranch. The itinerary we’d mapped out for them, I continued, included helping to repair and build simple ranch structures, clearing rock, community service for a very needy ranching family, helping handicapped children to ride—and perhaps, and then I grinned, even some playtime as well!

I explained what the ranch was and what we did. I spent more time than usual emphasizing our equine rescue program. And then I began to share with that extraordinary group of kids the story of the exquisitely beautiful black bay filly. I recounted each memory I had of seeing her deteriorate before my eyes while she was imprisoned at the breeding ranch. Using my hands to explain, I told them about the condition of her weak joints—how her pasterns nearly touched the ground with each step. I went over the course of action I had taken in negotiating with the facility that owned her, and how all
my efforts to move her to safety had failed.

They listened intently, their eyes growing wide and then squeezing shut with sadness.

I explained how I felt seeing the filly on those snowy days when she was staggering with weakness and hunger. She was still not for sale.… She was far too valuable.

Without intervention, I told them, the filly was going to die.

Everywhere among the group I saw silent tears streaking down the faces of the young people. I told them how the tiny black filly finally came up for sale. How we negotiated as quickly as we could with the finances that we had.

I reminded them that when something is meant to be, it happens. “Somehow,” I said, “love always seems to find a way. And today I can tell you … 
your love did
.”

During my story, Troy had quietly led little Black Diamond up behind the group. Softly I said, “Would you like to meet the one your love has released?”

With open-mouthed surprise, the kids looked up as Troy led the filly in among them.

“Your love bought the release of this infant horse,” I told them. “That was all she needed. Nothing more. Her life was changed forever because
your
love found a way.”

The young people formed a silent circle around the filly. Every hand reached out to stroke her still-fragile body. Most young horses would have panicked at such an entrapment, but tiny Black Diamond fulfilled the promise I had seen in her that first day. She had known there was something better waiting for her, and now she basked in the rising tide of love all around her. Perhaps she somehow understood that these were the caring hands that had set her free.

Taste of Heaven
 

K
INDNESS IS
like rain in the desert. We don’t ever really understand its impact until we truly know how dry the desert is. Rainlike gifts fall upon the ranch through many programs. Besides the main riding program, other offerings include a parents’ support gathering, a girls’ growth group, Glacier Fellowship, the Challenge team (an exercise group), a marathon running team, and Summit Seekers for hikers. Several other programs also assist in nurturing the families that come to the ranch.

Our food program is another vital asset that helps families to make ends meet. We keep a pantry and a large freezer stocked with any edible kindness that comes our way. The Village Baker, a local bakery, started the program by donating day-old bread several times a week.

Others soon followed suit by donating whatever they thought the ranch could distribute. An entire beef came, followed by hundreds of pounds of potatoes. Many donors have gone to supermarkets and brought to the ranch hundreds of dollars of items that financially-stretched families could never buy for themselves. Because it is a dynamic program, we never know when or what might be coming our way.

Such was the day when I went to simply retrieve some ice from the freezer. I opened the door—and nearly fell to my knees in astonishment! Someone had packed it full to bursting with ice cream—a frozen wall of every flavor imaginable. Sixty, eighty—maybe a hundred half-gallons.

Suddenly it became the surprise joke of the day. The leaders would instruct the kids to go and get something for them out of the freezer and then sneak around and watch their hilarious reactions. Some kids would look up in awed silence, while others would scream and laugh. A few children would even stagger backward! It was great fun.

Sierra had just arrived at the ranch—a beautiful, innocent fourteen-year-old with large, brown doelike eyes. Without preface or explanation, a small mob of younger kids pulled her by both of her arms until she stood in front of the freezer.

I came around the corner just in time to see her reaction, which occurred in slow motion. Her already large eyes dilated into huge black pearls. Her jaw dropped until it was not humanly possible for her mouth to open any larger. She staggered a step backward as her lips formed the syllable “Oh.” Time stopped as her brain tried to comprehend the sheer grandeur of the frozen wall of ice cream that rose before her.

Still gazing upward and distracted by nothing, in a hallowed, blissful voice she finally whispered, “It’s heaven … within heaven.”

The Glass Pony
 

I
WAS ONLY
seven. Sleeping over at Grandma Mimi’s house was one of the highlights of my life.

Playing in the orchard behind her house, snuggling with her on the couch, and eating enormous amounts of fresh-baked goodies made my life with grandma a little slice of heaven. Her love transformed her simple country home into a child’s paradise.

Toward the end of a visit, I often would hide myself in the bushes from my patient mother with the hope that she would “forget” me there, allowing me to spend the night with Mimi. While peeking through peony leaves, I would watch the dust slowly roil up from behind my mother’s car as she made her way back up the dirt driveway. When my grandmother tucked me into bed in one of my grandpa’s T-shirts, it made me feel like the most special girl on earth.

Just outside my window at my grandparents’ house stood an enormous oak tree. At night I could see tiny, distant stars winking down at me through the looming, black branches. And at times the moon smiled into the room with a pearly glow.

There, on the windowsill itself, the soft light danced off the back of a small glass pony. From my bed I could
only make out the soft reflection of its face, neck, and back. It was gray in any light, its little face cast into a permanent smile that pressed against its large round cheeks. But when moonlight flooded over that glass pony and all of the world that I could see, it beckoned me to wonder and to dream.
Would I ever have my own horse?

For many young girls, having a horse of their own ranks high on the scale of importance, right up there with breathing.

I would lie in bed, drifting in and out of slumber’s grasp, dreaming of sharing my life with
my
horse. In sleep’s drifting images I galloped over clover fields and swam in every pond. I lived with my face buried in tousled mane and earthy scent. My horse and I galloped, screaming for the joy of life, laughing with arms outstretched over fields and streams. We soared together flying on the wings of the wind.

Lying there in the dark, I could feel my horse’s velvet muzzle next to my face. Such are the blissful dreams of a seven-year-old’s heart.

Troy and I were enjoying a break on the beautiful Oregon coast.

When we have a rare spare moment, my husband loves to indulge me in one of my favorite pastimes. Fortified with gigantic cups of flavored coffee, we stroll arm in arm in mindless decadent leisure, cruising the antique stores. I love to ponder the stories these items could tell.

I always justify these times by telling myself that I am looking for fun Western items—tidbits to make the ranch more appealing and whimsical for the kids. Although
nearly everything is out of my price range, the looking is still free. With the twinkling eye of a treasure hunter, I begin each foray with the conviction in my simple heart that today—maybe—I will find something spectacular.

I hummed softly to myself and allowed my eyes to aimlessly explore the vast array of offerings as Troy and I drifted from aisle to aisle. My heart roamed free; it was like being pushed aimlessly by an afternoon breeze as we drifted along in relaxed bliss.

Then we rounded the end of an aisle … and I saw it. A soft “ohh” poured from my lips. A flood of memories washed over my heart as I reached out to pick it up. Its cool, smooth surface was as familiar to me as it had been when I was seven. This one was tan instead of gray, but otherwise it was exactly the same. It was the glass pony that had lived on the windowsill of my grandparents’ home when I was a child. The pony that had inspired my dreams and watched over me at night.

Quietly I explained to Troy how I remembered the glass pony. At seven, it had been my dreamland playmate when I visited Grandma Mimi and was always waiting for me on the bedroom windowsill. After the deaths of my parents, when I was nine, I moved into that same bedroom … permanently.

It was during these times that I began to imagine the glass pony not as my dreamy playmate but as my guardian. I hoped that it would protect me from the new terrors of the night. Only then could I slip into a dreamless refuge from the pain of my loss.

Somehow that glass pony was transformed into a figurehead—representing protection in my dreams from childhood, and now, representing a life fulfilled. Seeing it
again had abruptly swung my heart into a full circle.

I was still wandering in my ineffective explanation as Troy silently lifted the glass pony out of my hands. He wore a soft, all-knowing smile that communicated without words his understanding. Arm in arm, he guided me to the front of the store toward the cashier, where he bought the glass pony for me.

I sat with my grandma in front of the big western-facing window in her home, taking in the incredible view of the Cascade Mountains. The sunshine poured in all around us like a brilliant golden blanket. Monday was our day together. Our special time. We ate dinner together and talked about all that has happened between us since our last visit. With detailed descriptions, I shared the highlights of what Troy and I saw and did on our brief trip. I also used dramatic hand gestures because my grandma, a tiny soul near ninety, was almost completely blind.

She still chose to live in her own house, alone. Her rising determination and strength always amazed me. We reminisced of times past and speculated of times to come. We talked about everything. Between us, those were precious moments.

I began to tell my grandma about our trip through the antique store. I told her in great detail how I had found the glass pony and the flood of emotion that came with it. “Grandma,” I asked, “do you remember the gray pony that used to be in the windowsill of my bedroom? It was in our home when we all lived down by Shasta Lake.”

She turned momentarily and looked out of the window. It seemed as though she were trying to remember. I
tried to fill the gaps in her memory that time had erased.

She turned back toward me. Her chin rested on her thumb while her index finger crossed her lips. She began to nod slightly in vague recollection. I could only imagine how difficult it was for her to try to mentally locate a glass item in a home that she hadn’t seen in twenty years. Wincing to myself, I thought,
I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday!

I told her that I hadn’t seen the glass pony since she and Grandpa had moved to Bend twenty years ago. I guessed that it had been sold in their moving sale before they left Redding.

With her chin still resting on her thumb and her eyebrows drawn tightly together, she simply said, “Perhaps.”

Grandma left the room for a moment, and I mentally kicked myself for not remembering to bring the tan version of the glass pony. She would have enjoyed that so much.

My thoughts shifted gears again.
How could I have ever let something so important to me just slip away?
I wondered. I guess that I really didn’t understand how important it was until I saw its tan copy. In all of my fumbling explanation to Troy, I realized now how symbolic the glass pony was and that in reality, it was my.