Hope Rising (4 page)

The horses we had rescued were still far too weak and starved even to carry a rider. Jessica didn’t have much to offer either, but she gave all she had. At last her voiceless existence had begun to have a purpose outside herself. In
each of our horses she had found another living creature—also neglected and lonely—who needed her help to get well.

Watching them together was my first experience witnessing a child’s attempts to make an animal better. I saw Jessica’s confidence and sense of self-worth grow as she began to give, and receive back, unconditional love.

Jessica was a silent paradox. If I gazed at her a little too long, her large eyes fell like shattered stars, and I had the impression that the stress felt like a laser beam on her impoverished soul—that she might burn to ashes before my eyes and blow away. Yet she could wield a hammer for hours with all the strength of a man. Wordlessly, through those early days and weeks, she labored with us to build the foundations of what would one day become our ranch.

Looming large among the first of our jobs was the need for endless serpentine stretches of fencing all around the new property. Since the floor of the cinder pit was too rocky for digging, we soon gave up the idea of drilling postholes or driving stakes. Montana fencing seemed to be our only option—lodgepole A-frames ingeniously constructed to stand on top of the ground. The obvious drawback to this kind of fence is that hundreds of lodgepoles need to be measured, sawn, drilled, and then assembled with hardware to make the frames. They are awkward to handle and heavy to carry. Each frame has to be shouldered into position—one every ten feet—and then connected to the next by three twelve-foot poles. As interminable and exhausting as this process was, Jessica never appeared to tire of it. Nothing defeated her until the setting sun finally made it too dark to carry on.

One Wednesday a collision of moisture and bitter wind engulfed us in driving sleet. Usually the sight of the mountains sweeping upward from the ranch makes my heart soar, no matter how hard the work or what is going on in my life. This day they were shrouded behind an ominous blanket of gray.

After shouldering logs and poles into position for most of the morning, the tedious job of actually constructing the fence came almost as a welcome relief. Armed with power drills, twenty-five pounds of eight-inch lag screws, hundreds of washers, a hammer and a handsaw, Jessica and I slogged back up the storm-battered hillside.

The biting wind whipped stinging pellets into our faces as we worked. Icy trickles streamed down Jessica’s flushed cheeks. Tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and were frozen to her coat, her neck, her lips. She didn’t appear to notice but carried on with a bleak sort of strength.

When the heavy-duty drill batteries finally gave out, I thought we should take the thirty minutes needed to recharge them and recharge ourselves. We both needed to warm up and dry out, and I had a long-distance phone call to return. “Let’s go up to the house,” I said, “and have some tea.”

Silently, Jessica shook her head. I implored her to come out of the storm and rest for a while, but she steadfastly refused. “I have to make this call,” I told her. “Promise me, if you get too cold, that you’ll come in.” I was pleading by that time, but had to be satisfied with the almost imperceptible nod she gave me.

Indoors, the driving sleet sounded like glass beads
spattering against the wall of windows that make up the front of our house. I turned on the lights and felt again the warm pleasure I always get when coming into my home. We’ve painted some of the walls to look like old parchment; others glow with a warm adobe red that makes just the right backdrop to our eclectic mix of western-style furniture and priceless yard-sale treasures. I shucked off my soaking coat in the welcome heat and put the kettle on to boil.

From inside, the storm looked worse, and I felt a pang as I saw in the distance Jessica’s wraithlike form through the lashing sleet. I made the call, and what started as a quick few words stretched into a rich half-hour conversation. With an eye on the clock and thinking of Jessica, I wound up the call just as a movement outside caught my eye.

I stepped close to one of our big windows, and I saw that Jessica had led out our most recently rescued horse to the hitching post—a gray filly who was so impoverished when we found her that I was afraid she would have permanent leg damage. Although much improved from when we’d brought her to the ranch a few weeks ago, she was still emaciated and weak. Jessica had perched herself precariously on the post of the hitching rail, while she and the filly huddled their heads together, nose to nose. Intrigued, I pressed my face against the window. My breath fogged the glass, and absently I rubbed it clear.
Lord, what’s going on?
I wondered.

Suddenly, Jessica lifted her head and sat upright. As if in some mysterious accord the filly’s head bobbed up as well. Now I could see clearly what was happening. Liquid warmth flooded my eyes as in the silence of the house I
realized exactly what they were doing. Jessica was talking! She began to add emphasis with her hands and arms. Words bottled up for years—words that needed to be said—were pouring out of her like a flood. The stone walls around her heart, like those massive walls of Jericho in ancient times, came tumbling down. With an angel’s view I watched Jessica speak, a vivid one-way conversation punctuated with waving hands and lifted eyebrows. From a starving horse to a starving girl and back again, a torrent of love washed away their barren places.

The driving sleet outside became a healing rain as a destitute horse was allowed to go where no adult had been in years—stepping through the minefield of Jessica’s soul to reach a broken child, in a flow of trust and love that only God can truly understand.

At that instant I purposed in my heart to build the kind of place where this miracle might happen over and over again. A simple place where angels disguised as starving horses could reach out to the hearts and souls of starving kids. It was a perfect match, forged in heaven itself. It was the moment when Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch was born.

What appeared that day to be the destruction of a stony prison, the release of a tender, captive soul—the end of a silent world—was really just the beginning.

The Wishing Tree
 

M
AMA, THE
W
ISHING
Tree burned down!” Breanna cried, her voice as thin and small as her nine-year-old body. “I went with Heather to see if it was okay. But it wasn’t. It burned down in the fire last week.”

“Honey, I know about the fire,” her mother said. “But what is this ‘Wishing Tree’?”

The child took a deep breath, as if she needed fortification for the precious pearl of information that she was about to reveal. She looked away, focusing on some imaginary spot on the floor. “The Wishing Tree was our special place.…” she began.

The story was a complete revelation to Breanna’s mother. The child told her about the place of refuge that she and her older sister, Heather, had run to at the end of every day. To anyone else, it was nothing more than the useless, hollowed-out stump of an ancient juniper tree—a cavernous woody monument to what had once been. But the Lord has called all things to be part of the cycle of nature, and even in death this tree gave life—refuge—to two frightened and battered little girls.

Heather and Breanna had found an opening in this wizened massive stump that beckoned them to crawl
inside to safety. There, within the hidden security of those strong wooden arms, they found escape from their fears. Inside this secret place they found what their daily life had all but destroyed—hope. Having recently escaped their violent and abusive father, they had left everything behind. All that was once familiar lay far in the distance. Now they had only each other.

But the ancient sentinel of the forest did more. It was not only a fortress from fear, but also their hideaway where the sisters could become, once again, ordinary little girls—giggling, playing, and sharing whispered secrets. There, inside that sanctuary, hope that had for so long been nearly crushed out was reignited.

Of all the dreams awakening in their young hearts, one shone brighter than the others—the desire to ride a horse. Anyone who has had the experience can understand that longing—to smell a horse’s earthy fragrance, to warm your hands under a thick mane, to feel one of God’s most powerful creatures beneath you, yielding to your commands with willing devotion … the sense of freedom.

This dream became their wish, their brightest star. It was for the hope of this gift that daily they would crawl into the gray snag, hold hands, and pray that somehow their wish would come true. It was this faith—the untarnished, innocent faith of two young girls—that transformed a lifeless old stump into a figurative “tree of life.” If a stump could smile, I’m sure it did the first time it became known as the Wishing Tree.

Listening to the woman’s barely audible voice on the phone was like hearing the weak and shallow breathing of someone near death. Exhaustion and titanic sorrow were evident in every labored sentence—she spoke with the
unmistakable indicators of a severely abused and battered woman. Her name, she said, was Diane. We talked for nearly an hour as, word by word, her horrific story unfolded between us. Like a tightly gripped wad of paper, each newly revealed detail slowly and painstakingly began to reveal a crumpled self-portrait of her life of terror. Her voice was empty, weak, and timid, as if at any moment, at a poorly chosen word, a fist might crash through the telephone and slam into her jaw.

With my forehead cupped in the palm of my hand, I slumped over my desk, struggling to comprehend the violence she described. Her husband’s assaults were so ferocious that she had been hospitalized fifteen times. Once, in a drunken fury, he had smashed one of her arms and her collarbone, then seized her and threw her out of a second-story window. By the grace of God, with angels rushing in, she managed to catch a railing with her unbroken arm and hold on until help arrived.

During her husband’s brief imprisonment for that beating, Diane packed up her two girls and fled for her life. She drove as though chased by demons, frantically trying to put as many miles as possible between them and the man who had once vowed to love, honor, and cherish her.

Her car—equally battered and exhausted—broke down in three different states. Some incredibly generous truckers recognized her plight and, without prompting, became her guardians. Taking time away from their own hectic schedules, they made sure that she would not be stranded. Aware of her fear, they became a rolling team of strong comfort, protecting her throughout her flight. They radioed ahead and created a protective network on wheels of drivers who would safely guide the “Little Lady
and her Angels.” Mile after mile, across this great country, the truckers used their rigs to pull her failing car in their own draft. Despite their differing routes, the truckers never left their post of protection until they had found another that they trusted to hand off their mantle of guardianship. Together, each doing what they could, they guided her to rest and safety.

Nearly collapsing with fatigue, Diane was at last forced to stop. They found a rundown shelter to stay in for what was left of that hellish night. Even then, the bone-weary woman felt the weight of evil eyes fixed on her as she guided her heavy-eyed daughters past the crowded rows of filthy bunk beds. But one of the men, sensing the undercurrent of danger, followed the desperate trio to their bedroom at the far end of the shelter. He had overheard her conversation at the front desk about her flight from a life of abuse.

“As a boy, I watched my mother being battered,” the stranger volunteered. “No woman deserves that,” he continued as his eyes dropped to the ground. “I know this is a really bad neighborhood. I want you to rest; I want you to be safe. Would you mind if I stood watch over your door tonight?” he asked with the heart of a little boy who could not do the same for his own mother. With that request, he boldly stood outside their dorm—all night long. Throughout the dark hours, the cringing family could hear him driving away evil souls who lingered at the threshold of their room, this guardian angel with the heart of a lion—a son who had grown into a man any mother would be proud of. He kept watch all night so that a haggard woman and her frightened children could finally rest.