Hope Rising (20 page)

She was like every other child I’ve ever known, starving for all of the physical and emotional sustenance that gives hope to live another day. And like too many children, she knew none of these things. Time for her was running out. Like a battered child, she wouldn’t raise her head or even lift her eyes to look at me. My presence seemed to inspire only more fear in a heart that had already been tattered by more sorrow than she could bear. Like a shadow cast by nothing she silently skirted away.

She reminded me of many of the children I work with—conditioned by long periods of rejection, they learn to fall back into the shadows, to say nothing, to think nothing, to be nothing. In full view of the world they gradually wither and disappear. We’ve all seen them. The children who hang back in a group. The children who prefer the lonely, protective shelter of a corner over the pain of more rejection and embarrassment. The ones who become the whipping post for every bully. They are like woolly sweaters matted with every imaginable mean-spirited burr. They are the soft, innocent heads that are chosen last for every game.

For so many of these precious lambs, going home at the end of the day does not bring relief. There is no comfort. There is no safety. Only more abuse and terror. For some, going home is like an innocent lamb going to slaughter.

Blinking hard, I looked back up at the devastated filly. Her dusty hide bore the wounds of her rejection. She was the equine version of the sacrificial lamb. In her herd—what should have been her family—she was the unclaimed soul, the silent, hungry breeze, the shadowy pariah with
nowhere to turn for comfort.

I turned to the owner.
Go carefully, Kim
, I warned myself. I masked my sense of urgency with a nonchalant tone. “How much for that young black mare?”

“Her?” The owner’s tone of voice indicated that had the horse been for sale her selling price had just gone up. But any hopes I had of rescuing the horse were crushed when the owner said, “She’s not for sale. She’s being kept for a breeding program, to produce highly valued black and white foals.”

I kept my expression neutral, but inwardly felt a stab of pain. The mare was not even three years old—far too young to carry a foal even if she had been in perfect condition. But she was not. Her twisted forelegs were barely able to support her wasted frame. This phantom of a filly was missing at least a third of her normal body weight, and she was receiving too little food even to maintain that—let alone to sustain a foal. Conception for her would be impossible … or fatal.

I revealed nothing of the turmoil I felt inside. I said nothing. We talked on about many other horses, many other things. But deep inside my thoughts were focused on the mare. I ran through one scenario after another, trying to figure out a way to negotiate her release. Within my heart I prayed,
Lord, please show me the way. Please show me how to help this solemn little one
.

The call finally came. It had been six months since I had last seen the black filly. Her hollow, downcast gaze had continued to haunt my heart. Now, still swaying on crooked legs, she was for sale. Negotiations for her purchase were completed by the end of my conversation with the owner.

Sarah, one of my senior staff, came with me two weeks
later on the four-hour journey to pick up the horse and bring her home. We chatted excitedly all the way. The release of “Solemn,” as we had christened her, was such a huge answer to prayer that we knew it was right and that everything was going to be okay.

At last we pulled into the driveway and maneuvered cautiously between the rusty old cars, piles of rotting wood, and discarded appliances, looking for a safe place to position the horse trailer. We expected that this would be Solemn’s first experience being loaded into a trailer, and we wanted to minimize her terror as much as possible. Once we had parked, Sarah and I warmly greeted the owner. Together we skirted the multitude of chained-up dogs, blocking our ears to their frenzied barking. Finally we came to the dilapidated corral where the filly had been left tied up.

With each advancing step my throat closed a little more. Perhaps time had gentled the memory I had of her, but without the camouflage of her winter coat her condition was shocking. Her ridged spine towered over a ribcage so jagged that it resembled a dinosaur display. Her breastbone jutted forward like the bow of a ship, three inches out from the surrounding flesh. Her bony hips protruded so savagely that it seemed they might slice through the fragile hide straining to cover them. Her legs, back, face, and rump were zigzagged with jagged cuts and scratches—all about two weeks old. The wounds on her face were bad, but the gash on her leg was worse. It should have been stitched when it happened. Now it was too late. It gaped open, caked with dried blood and manure. More than likely, infection had already set in.

My heart pounded and my neck and scalp prickled as
raw emotion coursed through me. The owner chattered on pleasantly as we made our way to the corral. Stealthily I glanced at Sarah. Her eyes shimmered with suppressed anger and sorrow. Her beautiful lips were pulled into a hard, flat line. I knew that she would not trust herself to speak until we were safely back in the privacy of the truck.

Solemn literally shook at our approach. She had pushed her head into the corner behind the post where she was tied in a futile effort to hide herself from us. Her haunches quivered like aspen leaves in the wind. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cradle her head against my chest and promise this broken creature that she would never be hurt again.

But I couldn’t do any of those things. Instead, we silently watched a pitiful demonstration of what this terrified horse could do. She was shuddering under the weight of a heavy western saddle. In her mouth was a gag bit made of twisted iron, which was certainly adding to the pain of her deplorable physical condition. She recoiled violently from every touch as though she were being shocked. The glaring whites of her dilated eyes silently screamed of her life of horror.

Finally I couldn’t bear it any more. Guarding myself to keep an even tone, I asked the owner to please remove the saddle and bridle. We signed a makeshift bill of sale, and I paid what I owed, praying all the while that Solemn would allow herself to be loaded into our trailer without further injury.

With gentle encouragement, Sarah and I were able to lead our new charge toward the open trailer. But faced with the open door she spread her crooked front legs out like a young giraffe bowing for a drink. Her eyes bulged
with terror as she began to snort and blow.

A frightened horse will sometimes struggle so violently during an attempt to load it into a trailer that it wounds itself to the point of self-destruction.
Dear Lord
, I silently prayed,
please don’t let that happen to Solemn
.

We let her stand quietly, giving her time to explore and accept this strange claustrophobic block in front of her. Then the owner casually walked past her and up into the open trailer with an armload of hay. I bit back my experienced opinion that hunger never triumphs over blinding, life-threatening fear. That arrogant thought was scarcely formed in my mind before the filly’s eyes focused on that life-giving nourishment, and her feral instinct took over. She lurched toward the food, not even seeming to notice the step up into the trailer in her famished effort to get as much hay as she could before, once again, she was driven away. With sad amazement I quietly closed the trailer door behind her.

I peered at her through the drop window in the side of the trailer. Her enormous eyes were still rimmed with fear, but she chewed steadily at the hay.

We said our good-byes quickly and wove our way out of the yard and onto the highway, driving as though we were hauling a glass horse. She very nearly was. In her condition any sudden movement could jostle her into a broken pile on the trailer floor.

Sarah, having restrained her volcanic anger all this time, erupted in fury the moment we were out of earshot. We both have seen this kind of thing many times, but it is something we will never get used to. Gradually, as the miles went by and we drew closer to home, we both relaxed. Sarah and I returned to the normal rhythm of
our conversations and mapped out our strategy of how we were going to help Solemn.

Once we had her safely back at the ranch, there was much to do. She was vaccinated and dewormed and then settled into the quarantine paddock. We took her height and weight as a baseline measurement for progress. Even though we moved around her as calmly as we could, she still trembled and jerked pathetically, like a tattered flag snapping in the wind. We tended to all her wounds, including the oozing gash on her leg. She let us do anything as long as we didn’t move her away from her food.

The next day her condition had visibly improved. On her grotesquely shrunken frame, simple hydration made a clear difference.

Solemn’s progress spiked initially, but after several months it seemed to level out. As she became stronger physically, we noticed an emotional change. Instead of cowering when someone approached her, she was now strong enough to wheel and run. Her body was growing, but her faith in humans was not. Life for her—as for so many abused children—had been far too cruel for far too long.
How deeply
, I wondered,
can trust be beaten down before it can no longer be resurrected?

Day after day I entered her corral, hoping to build a bridge of trust. Sadly, I watched as she instead began her familiar pattern of evasive maneuvers. Between us a new foundation needed to be built. “Think of me as the gentle boss mare,” I told her. “I’ll never hurt you. You are my herd. I will love you with my life. All I’m asking is for you to trust me enough to turn and face me.”

It was disheartening, after so many months, that she was still too terrified even to look at me, let alone turn
toward me. Every session ended the same way. Quietly I would approach her flank and gently stroke her hips and back. Inch by inch my slowly circling hands would move up to her shoulder. It was in this position that I spent the most time, stroking as much of her quivering black hide as I could reach. She nearly always stood with her head lowered, deeply pressed into a corner of the fence or some other hiding place. I hated seeing this awesome, powerful creature cowering at my touch.

Then without warning a significant change occurred. A tiny crack broke through the thick wall of fear that guarded Solemn’s heart. Suddenly, instead of seeking escape, she stopped, lowered her head, and looked at me. Hearing my startled intake of breath, she turned to face me! Everything seemed to stop, including my heart. I held my breath, fearing that any movement would frighten her away. Her eyes were wide and questioning. Her head bobbed and dipped, wavering between the high, alarmed position that precedes sudden flight, and a low, submissive posture that pleaded for acceptance.

Slowly I turned away, inviting her to follow. Time slipped away between us. Then in carefully measured movements, I backed toward her. Her head and neck arched backward, but her hooves stayed firmly planted.

I paused. Her neck began to relax, and she stretched her head out toward me. With all the speed of a rising moon, I held one finger in front of her velvet muzzle. I peered cautiously over my shoulder, and I watched as her nostrils flared slightly to take in my scent. The investigation seemed to satisfy her; she did not retreat. Now she stood only inches from me.

With the tenderness of an angel’s kiss, I crooked my
index finger and touched the space between her nostrils. It was as soft as a butterfly’s wing. It was the first time that she came to me actually searching for the comfort of my hand. That moment flooded my heart with warmth. From then on, each day built upon the last. She allowed me to touch her muzzle, her cheek, her forehead—and finally her neck and body. Working with her was like stringing a precious necklace one pearl at a time. Each improvement, no matter how small, brought with it a cascade of praise. Each baby step on its own seemed unimpressive. But I knew that the sum of them all could take us to the top of the highest mountain.

Kids and staff had started working with her also. She was regularly brushed, combed, clipped, and bathed. She flourished under their care like a rose in the early summer sun. Her physical condition improved in tandem with the emotional change. Within weeks she had added a hundred and thirty pounds to her once-skeletal frame. Now faint dapples began to appear on her shining coat.

Even so, her trickle of confidence had grown into only a modest stream. The dam of fear that shielded her heart was still firmly in place, blocking her from any open demonstration of love. She was still deeply distrustful of humans. I wondered if she would make it. Could she become a usable horse for adults? Could she ever cross that rare threshold to become a great children’s horse?

Sondra sat alone in the rumbling isolation of the airline cabin. Fifteen thousand feet above the Cascade Mountains, she was lost in a mountain range of thoughts as vast as the peaks far below.

She and her three teenage children had survived a difficult divorce. Now, having hopscotched from city to city across the United States, she was desperately determined to find the right place where she could safely nurture and raise her family.

Her oldest and youngest children were bright and academically gifted. They were resilient, like daisies, thriving wherever they were planted. But her middle daughter, Emily, was struggling to find where she fit in her new world.

Emily had the soul of an artist. Her feelings, like tender young shoots, were easily bruised and damaged by the thoughtless trampling of her peers. She was a fragile budding rose. And every day all the substance and softness that was Emily was quietly, petal by petal, falling away. She needed something, or someone, special, something uniquely hers to pour her emotions into. And she needed it soon.

Gazing down at the snow-capped peaks, Sondra felt the first stirring of hope. The mountains beckoned her like long-lost friends. They whispered comfort to her bruised heart. They became part of her answer. In spite of the shoulder-to-shoulder confinement of the stuffy airplane, her spirit began to soar. It rose up before God like a weary sparrow, searching for shelter in the relentless storm of her life.