Hope Rising (5 page)

Moving on again at first light with the continuing help of the truckers’ impromptu safety network, Diane drove until they almost ran out of country—almost as far as one can go west from Louisiana. With two thousand miles behind them, she finally felt safe enough to stop in Bend, Oregon.

Once there, Diane read about Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch in a local newspaper. She confided that Heather and Breanna had pleaded with her for over a week to make this call. Her voice rose slightly as she spoke about her daughters and their long-held wish to ride. After some stammering hesitation, she added that it was Breanna’s birthday the following week. Too long beaten down to have much hope for anything, she simply asked, “Would it be okay if we came?”

Immediately she backpedaled, fearing she might have presumed too much. “They don’t need to ride or anything. Maybe,” she pleaded, “they could just come out and look at the horses.”

My heart ached for them. “Of course you must come,” I told her, and we made the necessary arrangements then and there. After I hung up the phone, I sighed deeply and prayed,
Sweet Jesus, please help this little family
.

On the appointed day, I watched with quiet anticipation as the two girls and their mother shyly slipped out of their car. They huddled together as they approached me, moving as though they were a single living entity.
So this
, I thought,
is the woman who has survived so much
. My first impulse was to scoop her up—to scoop them all up—in my arms, to hug them tightly as I kissed their hollow cheeks. I wanted to assure them that in this place they would always be safe; that here, both love and hope would flourish again.

But an ugly thought stopped me. They had never
known a loving touch. My first impulse to reach for them might be misconstrued—seen as a threat rather than a comfort. So I held back, greeting them with warm words, welcoming them to our little ranch. I promised them that on this day, wonderful things were going to happen.

At first the girls were hesitant to address me. I looked down into their huge brown eyes, and finally, Breanna returned my gaze. With the innocence of an angel and the hint of a smile, she said, “I am eight today.”

It was a perfect opening. “Wow!” I said. “I’m honored that you would come to my ranch on such a special day. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

Breanna shook her head gravely.

Heather, who was standing almost completely behind her mother, somberly nodded yes. But she dared not raise her eyes to look at me.

I asked gently, “You have ridden before?”

Diane turned quickly to look at Heather. In a slightly embarrassed voice she said, “Honey, please tell the truth. You’ve never ridden a horse in your life.”

Finally, after a slight nudging from her mother’s elbow, Heather lifted her head and met my eyes. With a great summoning of courage she softly said, “I ride horses every night—” her eyes quickly dropped to the ground again before she finished—“in my dreams.”

Precious lamb
, I thought. My eyes began to fill with tears. “Heather, did you know that sometimes dreams come true?” I said in a soft voice. “I have many horses that would love the chance to grant you your dream. Come on, let’s go and meet them,” I said, extending my hand toward hers. As if visually asking permission, she looked up at her mother and then back at me. Slowly, her gaze fell again to
my outstretched hand. She studied it for a long moment, and then with slow deliberation, she silently put her hand in mine.

After riding two of our most gentle horses, a flicker, a glimmer, a tiny glow of hope began to emerge. And with hope, a new freedom—to play and to laugh like ordinary kids. We started out giving baths to the horses, but then, an honest “Oops, I didn’t mean to squirt you” quickly erupted into a full-blown water fight with all of us tumbling around on the grass, squealing and splashing in the spray.

The rest of the day flowed by like a river of dreams, rich and lazy under a golden August sky. Past each turn and bend the girls’ impish grins grew wider, melting into self-conscious giggles. Fear, which had shadowed their entire lives like a stealthy predator, could not rule them in this place. That ruthless fear was given a sound spanking and sent limping away.

Much too soon, it seemed, Diane said it was time for them to go. But first I steered them with feigned curiosity toward a white bundle I had earlier placed on one of our picnic tables. The girls undid the twisted tablecloth wrapping, and then stood back in shy surprise. Inside were all the necessary symbols of this special day—a birthday cake, cups, plates, forks … and a huge bag of carrots!

After the cake had been shared and devoured, Breanna set out at a skip with the carrots to celebrate the day of her birth with all her newfound four-legged friends. The shadows grew longer in the warm early evening, and at last it really was time for the little family to say good-bye.

I wondered if it had been enough. Had I really done my best for a family that needed so much? They had cowered
for so many years under a reign of terror—could one single day really make a difference? Lost in thought, I followed their car with my eyes as it started back down the drive and through the ranch gate.

With the innocent simplicity of any eight-year-old, our birthday girl twisted in her seat to look back at me. To my great joy I saw her tiny fingers raised high, waving back at me through the car window. Caught off guard, I waved lightly in return and smiled.
Thank You, Lord. It was a good start
.

The Wishing Tree is gone—destroyed in the fire. But the hope it nurtured within its protective walls remains and continues to grow. Hope cannot be destroyed. It calls us to rise up; it whispers our name. It draws us to believe that, sometimes, wishes
do
come true.

Diane told me later that our first day together was a turning point in their lives. It was a day when hope took root and began to grow—when the fear that had held them in bondage for so long received a mortal blow. Since then, their friendship has grown deep roots in my heart. I love the sparkling silliness of the two girls whom I have come to adore as my own. They are like bricks set in the foundation of what Crystal Peaks is becoming.

I thought that first day in August was my gift to them. But in reality, by the grace of God, they have become His gift to me.

To reassure the reader, the telling of this story will not jeopardize the safety of Diane and her daughters. Diane’s former husband recently died in a traffic accident
.

Vitamin M
 

A
LTHOUGH HER
name is Hailee Brite, I always think of her as Bright Hailee. Her little horseshoe-shaped grin radiates all the good cheer any heart could hope for. If sunshine could skip, it would look like Hailee. Her dark blond hair bounces behind her in golden shafts as she scans the ranch for her favorite horse. After reaching up to hug me hard, she dances off in her trademark cow-patch pants and old farmer’s hat.

But before she leaves me, Hailee carries out her sweet and timeless ritual, as reliable and heartwarming as the rising sun. She bows deeply, tipping off her well-worn hat in a cascade of giggles, and presents me with the gift she has hidden inside.

Now, Hailee knows how much I enjoy cards and flowers and drawings. But she ignores all that and goes straight for what I
really
need. With all the mock drama of a court jester, she invariably produces from her hat a one-pound bag of vitamin “M.”

With hearing set more finely than a tuning fork, my perceptive staff detect the delicate crinkle of plastic and converge on us at that exact moment, with all the subtlety of a tidal wave. The feeding frenzy begins—and is over in
the speed of a sneeze. I’m left standing with nothing but an empty plastic bag in my hands.

Over the dispersing crowd, I smile at Hailee. She shrugs her little shoulders in a “better luck next time” gesture. I wink back at her and glance down at my mangled bag. And each time it happens I console myself by thinking, “What kind of a leader would I be … if I didn’t share my M&M’s?”

Chosen One
 

O
NE LOOK AT
Maci would make anyone swallow hard. It was the first time that I had seen my little nine-year-old elfin since her traumatic accident. One hundred and twenty-eight stitches were needed to close what could have been fatal wounds to her face and head. Her tiny skull had been fractured with such crushing force that her parietal plate was actually displaced backward.

Now, two weeks later on this snowy January day, Maci stood in my kitchen, her bright blue eyes seemingly unaware of the savage wounds that surrounded them. She looked up at me and smiled as her tiny hands lifted up what had become a present beyond value—her riding helmet.

My whole body shivered as she carefully but triumphantly placed her completely destroyed helmet into my trembling hands. It had saved her life, this helmet. It had done its job, dispersing the impact of her fall, and now this child stood before me, alive, to give me this most precious gift. In my mind I prayed,
Thank you, Jesus, for enforcing within my heart to always protect my lambs, young and old, with riding helmets
.

Two weeks earlier, Maci and her mother had made an appointment twenty-five miles away to see a horse they
were considering buying. I was out of town and the rest of our ranch leadership was unavailable, so the mother and daughter team had set out alone to test ride the horse.

Once the horse was groomed and tacked up, Maci amazed all the adults present by gently refusing to mount—because she didn’t have a riding helmet. “At ‘my’ ranch,” she said, “we are taught that the saddle goes on the horse and the helmet goes on the child. We have learned to never, ever put our foot in the stirrup without using our heads to protect our heads. I’m sorry, but I know I shouldn’t ride this horse without wearing a helmet.”

Maci’s mother told me later how proud she was of her daughter’s shy respect as she insisted on what she had been taught at Crystal Peaks. The horse’s owner was able to produce a riding helmet from her garage and so, after some minor adjustments, the helmet was set firmly in place and Maci was helped into the saddle.

For nearly an hour, horse and child rode together with the perfect rhythm of a well-written poem. All too soon, though, it was time to go. Maci’s mother called to her, “You look so beautiful together, honey. Why don’t you canter toward us one more time?”

On their last pass the chestnut gelding was moving with fluid grace when unexpectedly he flew into a blind panic and galloped out of control. The young mother and owner waved their arms frantically, trying to make a human barricade as he thundered toward them. Using all of her strength and competence, Maci was still unable to stop the terrified horse. Neither could the adults. They were forced to dive out of the way to avoid being trampled under his flailing hooves.

The gelding careened past them at horrifying speed.
The mother and owner quickly regained their feet, only to watch helplessly as Maci and the horse disappeared from view.

Maci knew that a major crossroad with heavy traffic was fast approaching. The bloody images from the recently seen film
The Horse Whisperer
filled her mind. She knew what she must do. With the resolve of a soldier, the nine-year-old child purposefully dropped her stirrups in preparation for an emergency dismount.

No one really knows what happened next. Maci remembered a car coming out of nowhere and the horse launching himself violently to one side. Maci hit the pavement headfirst, became tangled in the horse’s legs, and somehow ended up off the paved road in a ditch.

Maci’s mother ran with an adrenaline-induced panic in the direction her daughter had vanished. Her recollections of those moments still flood her eyes with tears. “I looked up to see my daughter running toward me. Her scalp was hanging down in huge flaps, with blood completely covering her face and chest. As she ran, chunks of the helmet fell away. I thought it was pieces of her skull. Kim, I thought that she would run into my arms … and die.”