Hope Rising (13 page)

Together we groomed and tacked the gentle mare. I helped Robin snap on her helmet, and then she was ready for her first ride. She received her few simple instructions with the sobriety of a judge, but underneath I could sense a continuing thaw of her emotions. Droplets formed beneath the radiance of trust. Falling like tears, they converged into tiny rivulets. The small streams began to gather and swell into a rising current of confidence. In this moment of time she was allowing a horse to go where no one had been permitted for a long time. The carefully built walls of her heart were, step by step, being smashed beneath the hooves of a newfound trust.

The falling of the autumn leaves mirrored the falling away of Robin’s self-consciousness. With the remarkable resilience of a child, her heart began to change as brick by brick a new foundation of hope was being constructed. Daily, her sense of confidence and self-esteem increased. She was a voracious student, learning at an exceptional rate, while her initial intensity was now being systematically eroded by frequent girlish giggles. Her laughter, now lacking its former anchor of fear, was increasingly finding its way to the surface.

On a chilly fall day I watched in amazement as Robin cantered by. I had to remind myself that she had been riding for only a few weeks. Toward the end of her lesson, I joined her mother at the arena rail for no other reason than to share how impressed I was by Robin’s riding ability. I had just begun to speak when I saw her mother’s eyes rapidly filling with tears. Her diminutive frame began to
shake, and she covered her mouth with one tiny hand. With her other she cradled her infant son. Her huge eyes closed tightly for a moment.

The only sound was that of her other young daughter who was nearby throwing sticks for our puppy. Time seemed to hold its breath. At last, Robin’s mother turned to me and said softly, “If we hadn’t found this place, we would have lost her.” Her tears fell in silence as together we watched Robin in the arena, stride by stride, leave her demons behind.

Robin’s journey toward self-confidence continued, and one week before Thanksgiving I watched this precious blond girl with no help at all, ride a tall, elegant Anglo-Arab mare. The mare’s graceful mane and tail and Robin’s ponytail all combined in a floating rhythm under the brilliant evening sky. Set against a deep purple and magenta horizon, it was like watching a dance, human and equine hearts moving together in a timeless embrace.

I bit my gloves off and clapped my bare, cold hands together so she could hear me. She trotted in toward me, and I spread my arms wide open and shouted, “Wow!” Reaching up, balancing on my tiptoes, I met her in a huge hug. Her little face glowed. She was not the same girl I had met only seven weeks before. “I’m so proud of you, Robin. I know your parents are, too,” I added, as she prepared to cool the horse down. “Your dad would be amazed to see what you’ve done here. When are you going to invite him to come and watch you?”

Her glow quickly faded into shades of gray. Her eyes dropped to the ground. “He’ll never come,” she finally said in a quiet voice. “He’s too busy.”

The grip of poverty had pushed this young family
nearly to the breaking point. I could only imagine a young father of three trying to maintain the balance between work and family. Clearly, from this eight-year-old’s perspective, Dad was absent from the things that she valued the most.

We rushed to tack down under the final applause of what had been a violently beautiful sunset.
What a remarkable end to a spectacular day
, I thought, as I watched this precious family drive down the hill and away from the ranch.

Suddenly, in the twilight, bright red taillights flashed. Before the car had completely stopped, the passenger door opened, and a small, familiar form came running back to me. “I almost forgot,” Robin puffed. “I have something for you.” Her little clutched hand rose toward my face, and in the dim light I could see that she was holding a tiny school picture of herself.

“Honey, you are so beautiful!” I exclaimed as I turned the picture over. What I read on the back dropped me to my knees. My voice nearly failed as I tried to thank her. From my knees, I wrapped my arms around her tiny body and hugged her tightly.

Still kneeling in the dust after they had driven away, I looked again at my little picture. Next to a childlike drawing of a horse, the inscription said simply, “Thank you for giving me wings so I can fly.”

Pony of Gold
 

A
SOLITARY PONY
stood with his tail turned toward the bitter November wind. From birth this animal was meant to be surrounded by his own kind, to be part of a herd, to be part of a family—but he stood alone. His long, ragged coat did little to hide his bony frame. The pony was old, past his prime, his usefulness all but gone.

In the wake of the setting sun, waves of gray blanketed the earth. As darkness fell, the temperature dropped with it. The wind carried the scent of snow.

When ponies look into the night sky, do they dare to ponder? Do they hope to be loved by someone special? Do they wish to become a child’s dream come true?

After deep consideration and prayer, I felt that it was time to make the call. Robin’s mother was silent as I shared my idea. “What do you think?” I finally asked.

After a small hesitation she seemed to find her voice. “I think it’s wonderful. It’s every little girl’s dream to have a horse of her own.”

We decided we would begin looking for a horse for Robin, both agreeing that, if it were meant to be, the
money would arrive for the purchase of the horse and its continued care at our ranch. “Do you believe in miracles?” I asked.

With thoughtful deliberation, she replied with a quiet yes. I smiled. “So do I.” The wheels of prayer were set in motion.

Miracles fill the space that is given to them. They can be as small as a twinkle or larger than the midnight sky. However, unlike dreams, miracles come to life. They are powered by the smile of an Almighty God and profoundly change all who are touched by them. Many have said, “Seeing is believing,” when in reality just the opposite is true:
“Believing
is seeing.”

Several days later I stood at the counter of the local feed store, preparing to carry out my purchase. I had told the store manager about Robin and asked if he might know of anyone who had a suitable horse for her. Across the counter the rancher’s warm, weathered face spread into an easy smile. “I believe I have her horse,” he grinned beneath his moustache.

The anticipation of seeing this little horse made my heart do somersaults!
Is he the one?
I wondered. Troy and I made the long trip to the rancher’s home, and the information that he had given me kept swirling around in my mind. The little horse was older, a buckskin Pony of America, recently purchased from a dude string that had gone out of business. The pony had been carelessly cast aside and would probably have met an unfortunate end if the rancher hadn’t intervened.

We rounded a long bend in the road, and I could see him in the distance. He stood alone in a barren field. His lowered head and expression were so somber. He stood
very still, like a crumbling statue long forgotten in a world of stone.

When we approached, a particularly strong gust of bitter cold wind visibly rolled through the field, swirling debris violently around him. I don’t know if it was the wind or the hope of being loved again, but something inside him suddenly came to life. His humble head and tail snapped up, and he met us near the gate at a full gallop.

At the hitching post, I finally had a chance to touch him. I ran my hands across his cheek, along his neck, and down his side. An immediate wave of sorrow rose from my stomach and tightened my throat. He was desperately thin. “Poor little man,” I whispered. His winter coat was so long that I didn’t see his miserable condition at first, but now I could not look away. Without special care, this golden pony might not be able to withstand the brutality of a Central Oregon winter.

Gently, I began to massage his thin back. He cautiously turned to look at me. His expression was hesitant, unsure and questioning. We gazed at each other for a moment before I realized that this forsaken little soul had probably never been touched in this way. Perhaps he had never been anyone’s pet, only someone’s property.

“What’s his name?” I asked the rancher without looking up. I was caught off guard by his answer, an answer that brought unexpected tears to my eyes. It portrayed the exact image I’d had of Robin the last time I watched her ride.

“His name is … Dancer.”

Without knowing more, my mind was made up. It felt as if the last puzzle piece had been fitted into place and the
picture had suddenly become clear. I decided to do whatever it took to save this old, starving, golden pony for a young, starving, golden-haired girl.

“Five hundred dollars is his price,” the rancher said over my shoulder.

“Hmm,” I mumbled, turning to look at him. “I don’t have five hundred dollars, but I know that if this is the good Lord’s idea, the money will come.”

As only a cowboy can, his slow smile embodied all the warmth of a lazy summer afternoon. On this bitter cold night, it seemed to warm the space between us. He extended his calloused hand, and we shook in strong agreement.

Dusk had slipped into dark as we turned our old pickup toward home. I couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for this pony. I looked up into the starry winter night, and a simple child’s prayer left my heart and followed my gaze up into the heavens.

The following day bustled with activity on the ranch. Parents and their children scrambled about preparing costumes for the participants and their horses for the following Saturday’s Christmas parade. I stood in the arena blowing warmth into my hands. I enjoyed being surrounded by the happy sights and sounds of utter chaos as my young riders prepared for their big day. Cold wind whipped glittering tinsel in all directions. The dark sky overhead and the very air around me came to life with the sound of literally hundreds of jingle bells carefully fastened to our patient horses.

My chaotic bliss was interrupted when, with the gentleness of a dove, tiny arms wrapped around my waist. A beleaguered little cherub looked up at me and smiled. I
bent down and kissed the top of her head. I looked down into Robin’s deep twin pools of blue. Her eyes were so large in her tiny, rosy-cheeked face. I could feel the sun rise within my heart. I straightened and looked up to see … her dad!

His gaze was lost in the confusion of the merry crowd around us. He looked a bit like a deer in headlights, torn between facing the onslaught or fleeing to safety. I made my way across the arena and intercepted him with a big smile and a handshake. Although his eyes moved like ricocheting bullets, he seemed to calm a little with our light conversation. Still his behavior suggested that of someone tied down on a railroad track—and the train was coming.

The whirlwind of people, horses, and decorations swirled throughout the afternoon. I sought out Robin’s dad as often as time would allow and talked to him about the upcoming parade, the ranch, his kids, and the golden pony that I had found the day before. He listened carefully and offered polite questions but was otherwise very quiet.

When I hugged his young family good-bye, I still wasn’t sure how he interpreted the day, our ranch, or me. It saddened me to think that none of it had made a very good impression in all of the confusion of the afternoon.

Later that evening I called the young family to wrap up a few details concerning the parade. Robin’s mother answered in her soft-spoken voice. Upon hearing it was me, she moved to a private location in their house and told me something totally unexpected. “I’m not sure what happened at the ranch today, but when my husband came home, he went into our bedroom and just sat down on
the bed. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me about the pony that you had talked to him about. Kim, he told me that he would like nothing more than to buy that pony for our children. Unfortunately we are so broke right now that nothing outside of a miracle would make it possible. But he continued to talk about the kids and the pony for a while. This has obviously had a big impact on him.”

I was left to ponder this new information. From my perspective, the young father seemed removed and uncomfortable. Yet for him, the reality of the day had apparently pierced his heart like an arrow. I couldn’t help but hope that an event like this, acquiring a pony for Robin, would bring together their struggling hearts.

In a single day the dream turned into a living miracle. Seven different people, only one of whom knew about the pony, donated nearly to the penny the purchase price of the little horse!

Troy and I wasted no time and drove out that night to purchase the pony. It was the eve of Thanksgiving. The wind was driving a light snow into our trailer when the pony jumped into the black space without hesitation.

“Does the kid have her own tack?” the rancher asked, tipping his head to the side so his cowboy hat would block the falling snow.

“No, nothing,” I replied.