Hope Rising (19 page)

A
MID OUR DOZEN
horses a small army of excited children stampeded about, arms loaded with decorations in preparation for the parade. The familiar marble rattle of spray paint cans being shaken made the very air sound happy. My patient horses yielded their bodies as living canvases for the young artists eager to paint their soft glowing hides with glittering stars and stripes. Red, white, and blue decorations were strewn in every direction beneath the bright morning sun. Here, within the hub of joyful chaos, my heart soared. It was the best of days—it was the Fourth of July.

I looked at my paint-drenched horses, standing innocent as lambs.
God bless them
, crossed my mind, quickly followed by the thought,
He already has
. My heart smiled.

It was almost time. After all of the fluffing, combing, glittering, and painting, the kids and horses were nearly ready. I surveyed the aftermath of the happy onslaught. The sparkling debris on the ground made the earth itself shine with a dazzling grin.

Now we were ready. And I was prepared to share with our star-spangled herd what this day was really all about. I gathered everyone together—children in front, adults at the back—and began to share my heart, my simple view of
what this day represented. I wanted the kids to understand that this parade was not for them; it was not about them. It was to honor the brave souls in uniform whose unfaltering service to our great land ensured our freedom. Only a few of those soldiers had survived to see this day; fewer still were able to celebrate with us in the parade. Today was
their
day. They had fought to win the liberty and independence we now enjoyed under peaceful skies.

I looked down into their open and winsome faces. The kids were hearing every word. They were feeling how important this was. Through my own ineptitude, I tried to explain how much these brave men and women gave to protect their country, their homes, their families … and us. They did their job out of their sense of honor, and in return to them we showed them our honor out of respect and gratitude.

I could feel my throat drawing tight and tears starting to rise. A mother in the back, openly moved, wiped her eyes. Seeing her compassion, my fragile dam gave way. I dropped my head, and I wept.

Quiet moments passed. Music and the clattering of hooves and creaking of wagons—sounds of the assembling parade—floated our way. It was nearly time to go. But there was one more thing that needed to be said.

In a soft voice I implored the children to think about something that evening while watching the fireworks with their families. “When you look into the deep night sky, you know that every light, every single spark that ignites the darkness, burns hot and then burns out. Remember that each one represents a life that was given. A life that burned bright and then burned out … so that you and I could be free. Freedom is not free. It has been earned for
us by thousands who gave their all, who gave everything, who gave their lives, so that you and I could share in their victory. So that we could share in the freedom that they gave their lives to protect. Our job today is to seek out the veterans who are here and thank them.”

The reminder was in place. Now we were ready.

With full hearts we marched on to the parade route. Each horse could have been flown from a flagpole—so dazzling were their proud decorations. Jubilant, waving children sat astride their bannered backs, shining in head-to-toe patriotism. I walked out leading my horse and her young rider into the last position.

We squeezed down the street between waving flags and ruby-cheeked faces, and I looked for an opportunity to express my thanks personally to some of the veterans. Halfway through the parade, between the freckled faces and sticky-fingered waves, I saw him.

He sat in a wheelchair much too large for his frail body. His hands, crippled with age, were folded on his blanketed lap. His body was ravaged by time, but he proudly wore on his sagging white head a neatly creased olive drab cap with the unmistakable insignia of a World War II veteran.

Within the shrunken shell of his body there still lived the indomitable spirit of a man who was proud to have served his country. And now, in the twilight of his years, he wanted people to remember him … to remember that he was a veteran. I was captured by him.

I could only imagine the man that he once had been. Young and powerful, with an honest heart that sought not only to serve himself, but also the greater good of our nation’s integrity. That young man was still there, his spirit still glowing deep within the old man’s eyes.

With horse and child in tow I paused, trying to gain the old soldier’s attention. I tipped my cowboy hat to him and said a loud, “Thank you!” His rheumy eyes came into focus, and his head snapped up. His lips parted as he stared at me. His expression seemed to say,
Are you talking to me?

The parade moved me along, but I twisted around to keep him in sight, hoping he understood me, hoping he knew that I was thanking him. It was far too important a moment to let it slip by.

His eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to read the emotions on my face. He didn’t seem to realize that I was talking just to him, so I made it easy for him. I removed my hat and pressed it to my chest in an expression of honor and looked directly into his eyes—behind his eyes to where the young soldier still lived. And I said, “What you have done has not been forgotten.”

For a second his face contorted with the pain of long-suppressed memories. And then a torrent of tears flooded his weathered cheeks. He caught them all, dropping his face into his cupped hands. His shoulders crumpled forward. One sob after another shook his frail body in an effort to be free. I watched him over my shoulder until a shifting crowd of devoted young well-wishers enveloped him.

Wow, Lord! What just happened?
I pondered the question as I moved on down the parade route. My intent had been to honor the veteran, not to crush him beneath a wave of grief. My heart was devastated. Had I inadvertently ripped open an ancient scar? Had my blundering expression of respect pushed him back into a theater that, for decades, he had been trying to forget? Or had his thoughts flashed back to a foreign battlefield where,
once again, he watched as his brothers’ lives, like the fireworks, had flamed with staggering passion, burned bright, and then were burned out before him.

This veteran, who had been sitting so peacefully watching the parade until I spoke to him, was seemingly ambushed by my clumsy attempt at appreciation. Where did his thoughts go? What did he see in his mind’s eye to prompt such a visceral response? My naive heart could never visualize, much less comprehend, the images that must have flooded his soul.

Even though I continued to wave and smile at the crowds, cool bewilderment crept over my heart.
Lord, instead of healing … did I hurt?
For the rest of the parade, I was left to wonder.

The parade drew to a close, and our entourage returned to its staging area, where everyone was abuzz about their many adventures during the trip down Main Street. I heard numerous stories of how several of those in uniform received all the love, honor, and respect our little team knew how to give. I was so proud of them all. Clearly they had understood the message I’d tried to communicate to them before the parade. And with childlike innocence they had carried it out. They had given honor where it was due. They had shown respect to those who had earned it long ago.

It had been a stellar day. All but for the uncertainty still troubling me over my encounter with the veteran in the wheelchair. My thoughts were interrupted. “Kim!” One of the parents, a friend of mine, called to me. He waved me over and told me he had been standing near the veteran and had watched as the old soldier wept long after the parade had swept us out of his sight.

My imagination began recreating the scene as my friend relayed a detailed description of all that he had observed. The elderly man continued to quietly weep, evidently consumed by his private grief.

Then, after his silent storm passed, he drew out a worn handkerchief, used it to dry his face, and carefully returned it to his pocket. It was as if that action had wiped the pain away with his tears, and then his transformation began. The frail old man, slumped in his wheelchair without the strength to hold his head higher than his chest, had been washed away in his flood of tears. The new man, still elderly and wheelchair bound, with a great effort moved his shoulders back until they rested firmly against his chair. In a motion that was most certainly painful, he moved his once-hanging head back and up until he held it at military attention between his newly squared shoulders.

My friend’s description of what he had seen reflected my exact thoughts: True patriotism is not confined or diminished by age.

I’ll never know what transpired in the patriot’s heart that day. Perhaps he returned to a time when the winds of war blew. In a mighty struggle known only to God, he was able to bend as the storms swept over him. By God’s mercy, as the smoke lifted, he was still left standing. Although today the tempest raged with fierce savagery, it blew itself out of the present and into the past. The boy who survived was transformed into a victorious man. Even now, within his failing body, he remained the victor.

Within my heart is a vault of heroes. Some are as close as my own soul; some I have never met. When I think of him now, the patriot, I will always remember him as one of
their treasured number—someone who inspires me to become a better person. I will always remember him as my hero.

Tanked
 

B
IRTHDAYS ARE
always special events on the ranch. When one of our kids, young or old, declares, “Today is my birthday,” they set into motion a stealthy chain of events that can’t be stopped. We don’t spank or pinch or sing traditional songs. But an observant soul might witness a knowing eyebrow being raised between each of our leaders.

Cake and ice cream are always welcome, but they never distract us from our focus. Our habitually kind and gentle staff, grinning like Cheshire cats, are silently transformed into single-minded hunters. Once the “birthday bait” has been captured, no amount of begging, bargaining, or pleading will save their one-year-older soul.

We drag or carry them, hand and foot, kicking and squealing, to their fate. Wriggling and laughter quickly turn into wide-eyed mock horror as we carry our captive through the main corral gate. Even the horses seem to enjoy the sacrificial rite, gathering around as we begin swinging our hapless victims to the count of three. With a mighty toss we let them fly into the face of a day they won’t soon forget. “Happy Birthdays” rain down in a torrential shower as they land with a flailing, spread-eagled splash in the horses’ water tank.

Solemn Vow
 

T
HE BITTER
December wind nipped at my cheeks and ears as I stepped out of my dependable, old Dodge truck. The sky hung above like a thick, gray quilt. There would be snow before dusk, falling like glitter flung from the hand of God.

I had made the long drive out to this rundown ranch a number of times, drawn by my concern over the herd of starving horses. This time I was meeting with the owner. I walked across the frozen ground to where she waited and gave her a hug as I recalled earlier conversations with her. I had the strong impression that this woman, like her horses, had known great personal suffering. Despite my anguish over the condition of her horses, I still understood that she needed to be treated with compassion and respect.

Together we approached the herd, and I sucked in my breath at the sight of a young black mare. Her condition was hideous. Even through her heavy black winter coat I could see that she was severely emaciated—far more than the others. But something about her called out to me.

Her gaunt frame was so underdeveloped that my closed fist could not fit between her front legs. Adding substantially to her plight was the fact that she was the herd outcast.
Rejected by her own kind, she was driven away from what little food existed to forage in the brambles alone.