Hope Rising (8 page)

After settling Lazarus into his paddock, I went back to investigate the accident scene.

I didn’t have to look far for the answer. Picking up the shattered end of the board, I felt a deep and sudden sense of the miraculous. In the entire wall of the wind shelter, this was one of the few boards that was imperfect. One of the few boards that had a huge knot in it. Without that blessed imperfection, my little colt would probably have died.

I thought back to that day at the lumberyard and my frustration with all the flawed boards. In my worldly way, I had sought perfection, thinking it would best serve my purposes. Society teaches us that anything less than perfect is unsuitable, undesirable, unusable, and unattractive—that it should be avoided whenever possible. But pure reality teaches us that the Lord loves and uses the flawed, unattractive, and broken—the apparently useless things of this world—to accomplish His greatest works.

As many as all the nails I have hammered are the times I have scolded myself for my shortcomings. It is easy to become focused on our “defective” areas and completely miss all that they teach us. Our flaws, our imperfections motivate us to become pliable, moldable, and teachable. And like knots in wood, they give us our uniqueness and character. They help to bend or even break us to the point where we are able to recognize the needs of others and to help them.

Now when I marvel at the majesty of the trees in my native forest, I see things differently. And if I really listen, I can hear the Maker laugh and say, “See, My child, I made the knots, too!”

Little Things
 

T
HE FOUR-LEGGED
staff at Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch work the hardest. They love every child with all they have, frequently building bridges into wounded lives where adults are not yet allowed. Often, the walls of destruction surrounding a child’s heart are broken down beneath their trusted hooves.

Because the horses give so much for so little, we try hard to always have a “good horse” supply of carrots. It is just something we do, a small detail, a little thing.

Unfortunately, time restraints often force us to overlook the simple things of life and focus our efforts on the siren call of what
must
be done. Although necessary, we can lose sight of the blessing that so many of the little things bring us.

Such was this particular summer day—a blur of tousled heads and toothy grins. And then I realized,
We need more carrots
. It was more of a thought than a prayer. But God must have heard me.…

“I’ll be right back,” I called over my shoulder to the staff as I made my way up the hillside to our house. While retrieving more film, I decided to check for phone messages at the same time. During the summer season, Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch receives forty or more phone calls per day. This day one message in particular got my
attention. I dialed the given number. After a pleasant exchange of information, I returned back down the hill with a crude map in my hands.

“As soon as someone sees Troy drive up, would you please send him my way?” I asked. Soon after, Troy chugged up the driveway. I met him with map in hand and a simple request.

“I received a sweet phone call today. It was a total stranger asking if we could use some carrots in our program. Isn’t that great?”

Not really knowing what to expect, I wanted to make sure that this simple gift was honored. I had assured the caller that we would come as quickly as we could spare the manpower and a truck. Although the gift was quite a distance away, Troy agreed to make the trip. Armed with a tall Mason jar of ice tea, he climbed back up into the cab. I secretly hoped the long drive would be a relaxing finish to his day, instead of becoming one more thing to accomplish on an already superhuman schedule.

Later in the afternoon the sun had slipped closer to the western horizon. When shadows began to lengthen toward the east, the staff and I began our evening ritual of ranch pickup and feeding the herd.

We were midway through this task when from down below, nearly a quarter of a mile away, I recognized the sound of our truck’s straining engine. I continued to listen as Troy rounded the turn that led up to Crystal Peaks. The engine complained loudly as the truck struggled up the hill. Puzzled by the labored sound, I tossed out the last flakes of hay and turned around to see what all of the grumbling was about.

My jaw nearly bounced off my chest—I couldn’t
believe
it! Like a four-wheel-drive Atlas, our truck staggered beneath the nearly impossible load. The front tires were barely in contact with the ground. “Oh my gosh!” I laughed out loud as Troy could barely steer the truck into the main yard. He was laughing, too.

Stewart, our new friend who had called earlier in the day, knew a farmer who grew seed carrots. Apparently, this was only a portion of his surplus.

The staff and I formed a makeshift brigade as Troy threw down the forty-five-pound gunnysacks from above. We continued stacking the sacks in the barn until there was a mountain of carrots so large that it would have nearly filled a stall—the total added up to about 2500 pounds!

After the job was finished, we all stepped back and looked with completely dumbfounded expressions at the monument we had just created. All we could do was stand there and laugh.

I told the staff about my prior thoughts of needing more carrots, although I never voiced it to the Lord or to them because it was just a little thing.

A simple thought crashed into my mind as if being hit by a one-ton wall of carrots. How completely wonderful to have a God who knows what we need even before we know. He answers our prayers even before they are prayed. He cares about the big things … and the little things.

Run Through Fire
 

I
T WAS OUR
last training ride before the beginning of the endurance-racing season. Under the long light of the evening sun, Sarah and I cantered shoulder to shoulder up the dusty road, moving in unison to the ancient, rhythmic beat of drumming hooves.

Though only fourteen, Sarah was already my dear friend and faithful riding partner. Through a series of devastating events, her life had become deeply entwined with mine. Her tender age lagged far behind her level of maturity. To some, she was a child, a lanky waif, a shy apparition, seen but not heard. To me, she had quietly developed into one of my deepest and truest friends. She knew that I loved her beyond any mistake or misjudgment she could ever make. In the glow of that knowledge, she had grown into a quietly confident ranch-building force. In turn, she represented the embodied love of Christ for me. She understood my heart, my desire to love the downtrodden, the underdogs, the unnoticed souls who slip through the cracks of life.

Sarah had always found it difficult to share her heart, but she communicated her devotion silently, powerfully, through ceaseless action. Our common love for horses
had drawn us even closer. Riding with Sarah that day, I looked across at her cantering beside me, her trademark pigtails rising and falling in time with her young horse’s hooves, and thought that nothing else on earth could have satisfied my heart more at that moment.

In the low, dusty light, Sarah glanced at me and grinned. That was it! Pure joy couldn’t be stifled. At a near gallop I dropped the tethered reins on my horse’s neck, threw my arms into the sky, and shouted with laughter. Without hesitation, she followed suit. From somewhere behind us, angels may have sped to keep up while giggling at the sight of these two joyful silhouettes, their jubilant forms barely perceptible through the rising layer of creamy dust as they galloped toward an orange sherbet sky. The lazy dust lingered in its destined fall back to earth, while joyful whoops and laughter could be heard in the distance. Joy was being carried on an evening breeze to all creation before sleep, the embracing reminder that life is good.

It was during that poignant moment that I saw the first glimmer, the first release of emotion, from Sarah’s guarded heart.

Our faithful horses began to cool out, walking shoulder to shoulder, and I vowed to Sarah that we would do the same thing in the race. No matter what we might encounter during this experience, we would face it side by side.… We would give our very best and then finish … shoulder to shoulder.

Sarah pondered my words for a long moment. Finally she looked away. Her emotions were so guarded, so deep—churning like a subterranean river through caverns of stone. All too often she retreated into a locked silence.
Her internal conflict was evident in her downcast eyes. I could tell all that she held inside, all that she wanted to express was reaching toward the surface, straining desperately to be free. It was agonizing to watch.

After long moments she finally looked back at me. I could see that her internal dam was crumbling beneath the weight of what she wanted to say. Then, like a life-giving spring seeping to the surface in a high mountain meadow, the words began to flow.

“You know what would really be great?” Her voice was barely audible as her gaze dropped to the ground. “When we cross the finish line … will you … hold my hand?” Silence. Her soft green eyes were veiled by her eyelashes as she continued to look down. She seemed to be whispering to herself as she added, “That … would be the
best.”

Through the long shadows of the evening, I reached my hand across the gap that separated us. She reached back and laced her slender fingers through mine. Her slight Mona Lisa smile could have split rock! Actually, I’m quite certain that it did. A gust of wind, like the draft from angels’ wings, swirled dust across the road before us. My heart caught the zephyr and soared through the delicious colors of the sky as we continued to ride side by side, hand in hand.

Now it was three days later, the day before the endurance race. We carefully trailered our team of five horses, five riders, and what seemed like enough equipment to outfit an army. Slowly we wove through a sea of approximately two hundred horses and all of the necessary accoutrements. To admit that it was a little intimidating would
be an understatement. Not only was this the largest race that we had done so far, but also my young partner’s parents were coming. For the first time they would see their daughter race.

Sarah’s parents were hardworking, simple people who had sacrificed the time to pack up their old Volkswagen van and come to the race. The camp was in foothills that reached to nearly six thousand feet, and though the days were warm, once the sun dropped below the mountainous skyline the temperature would plunge without mercy until it slipped into the teens. I knew Sarah was concerned about her parents’ comfort, apprehensive of how her horse would perform, and most anxious about their approval of all the work she had accomplished to get to this moment. Would they be pleased? She never expressed her worries, but they flooded her countenance nevertheless.

After hastily setting up camp, we shifted into the relaxing rhythm of grooming the four-legged half of our team. We took great pride in this process, knowing that all of our horses but one had been rescued—not purchased for their perfection, but for their need. Two of them had nearly starved to death. Another had been beaten so violently by her former owner that a vet was needed to sew up her innocent face. Now, between her eyes, a diagonal scar six inches long was a reminder of that vicious attack. The fourth one had been in such a desperate state that we’d driven through a black, howling blizzard over an unplowed mountain pass to get him to our vet. Even as Curt, our dear veterinary friend, worked on him, he quietly prepared us for his death.

Years of abuse had left two of our horses with serious disfigurements. One carried a jagged ten-inch scar across
his shoulder. The other, a mare, bore the evidence of a nine-inch gash that twisted down her right front cannon bone, or shin, and ended in an egg-sized lump of proud flesh above the coronet band, just above the hoof. The two other horses survived incredible neglect. One, being denied the nutrition needed during her formative years, had slightly, but permanently, bucked knees.

This was our team.