by Kim Meeder
Like satin ribbons floating beside him, his long white mane rose and fell with every stride. He was beautiful—there was no denying it. Mike was completely captured by him.
As Hanson continued to move around us, I could feel that Mike’s mechanical stiffness was beginning to soften. He was starting to relax not only in my presence but in Hanson’s as well. Still puppeting him from behind, I could see vignettes of his profile and that his lips were slightly parted. I leaned forward and spoke very gently near his ear, “Did you know that horses are smarter than people?” Gripping his wrist tighter, I slowly raised the crop within Mike’s hand to ask Hanson to continue trotting. I proceeded by carefully stating “A horse cannot lie … did you know that?”
Even from my awkward position, I could see that he looked as if he was completely mesmerized by this beautiful creature circling around him. Even blinking seemed to be an interruption for Mike; his gaze on Hanson was completely steady, nearly hypnotic.
Our lesson continued. “Because a horse cannot lie, that means that they can only tell the truth.” Hanson’s circles around us shrank from thirty feet to twenty-five, to twenty, his actions clearly asking if he could join us in the middle. From behind I slowed Mike’s walking pace in response, and lowered his crop-laden hand. Still holding his wrist, I extended both of our free hands toward the horse, and together we took a few steps backward, inviting Hanson to come in and join us.
Hanson, who was perhaps twenty feet away, slowed to a stop. He lowered his head slightly, hesitated momentarily then began to slowly walk straight toward Mike. From behind Mike, I slipped the crop out of his hand and silently backed out of the round pen, leaving him in the center with Hanson, alone. They stood face to face, young horse and young boy. Without instruction, Mike instinctively raised his hands and began to rub the giant gelding’s forehead. I watched from outside the gate.
It was time.
God, please show Mike the truth, I silently prayed as I stepped almost completely from Mike’s view behind the round pen wall. “Mike,” I called out. “Remember what you said earlier? That you couldn’t be loved, that you didn’t deserve to be loved? Do you remember saying that?” In this situation, I didn’t wish for any subtlety; I wanted this answer for him to be black and white—absolutely concrete.
Even though he didn’t really acknowledge my question, it was still clear by his posture that he was listening to me.
“Mike, when you finish petting this horse, I want you to do something for me. I want you to turn around and walk away.”
At this strange request, he rotated to look directly at me, his eyebrows crunched together in complete confusion.
“Trust me, Mike. Just do it.”
His body language totally changed. He did not want to do this. His formerly relaxed manner began to stiffen against what I was asking him to do. As if to add emphasis, he pushed his hair behind his ears in a very fast, deliberate motion.
“Come on, buddy, this is part of what I need to show you,” I encouraged.
Lord, everything is riding on this moment. A young man’s heart has been stolen. Will you please … in your love … return it to him … full?
Like a condemned man trudging toward the gallows, Mike walked away from Hanson.
When he could go no farther, he stopped and just stared at the sand that had pushed up against the base of the round pen wall. His body language gave witness to the loveless void that he believed he deserved. In the long shadows of the afternoon, with the world behind him and a solid wall in front of him, he had reached the end of his journey … completely alone.
I wondered if his deserted heart was ringing with the dry echoing of all the abandoned attempts of love that had failed.
His chin was so low that his hair fell forward, concealing most of his face. He stood very still … waiting … perhaps waiting for love to find him. The moment stretched on. Slowly, it began to feel too long, dusty, and parched with anticipation.
Piece by piece, all the world seemed to go completely silent … as if holding its breath in a unified hope that a young man’s belief in a lie … would be broken.
Suddenly, Mike jumped as if he had been electrocuted! Two huge, damp nostrils had momentarily pressed against the back of his neck. Hanson’s choice had been made … and he chose love … through the companionship of a broken young man.
Mike let a startled swear word fly as he jerked around to find Hanson looming directly behind him. With one hand on his heart, he exhaled in relief, “Dude! You can’t sneak up on me like that!” As Mike regained his composure, he began to pet the giant who had chosen to follow him.
With a big sigh, I, too, realized that my hand was covering my heart.
Lord, let your truth fall like a hammer. Break the lies that bind … let Your light pour into the darkness … so blind eyes can see, I prayed before I continued.
“Since you said that you don’t really believe that I love you, maybe you will believe someone else.” I paused to let this concept settle in his heart. “As far as your idea of not being able to be loved, I think that Hanson has something to say to you about that.” I took a deep breath. “Mike, this horse is completely free to go anywhere he wants to, and since you believe that you ‘don’t deserve to be loved,’ I want you to walk away from him … again.”
As before, Mike walked with arduous steps nearly as far away as he could … nearly. Without hesitation, Hanson turned and walked closely behind him. “Mike, turn around and look,” I said softly. He knew that the horse was following him, and without a word, turned and reached up, running his hand under the horse’s mane.
I clarified the scene: “He cannot tell you how he feels with words … so he is telling you with his actions. Again, Mike, I don’t want you to have any doubt … so walk away again,” I quietly added.
This time, he left his hand resting on the top of the gelding’s neck and they walked away together.
“He is a horse … he cannot lie … he can only tell you the truth, Mike … and he is telling you something right now. He is clearly saying without a word that you are wrong; not only can you be loved … he is choosing to love you … because you are worth it.”
I wondered, when Mike stopped, if he had not purposefully turned his back toward me. With his face turned away, he stood leaning heavily against Hanson’s neck.
Let your hammer fall, Lord …
“Mike … keep walking … I want you to keep walking away for as long as it takes for you to really believe what is true … because honestly, what is true … your proof … is following you. With every step he is proving you wrong … with every step he is asking to be your friend … to be in your herd … to be your family. Keep walking until you are ready to let go of your belief that you cannot be loved. Then you can stop … and embrace what you now know is true.”
Nearly before I had finished speaking, Mike had stopped and turned into Hanson’s mane. Again, his back was toward me. I watched as he slipped one arm over the top of the gelding’s neck and one arm under, encircling him in a silent embrace. He had come home … to the middle … where all the rest, love, peace, joy, and forgiveness are.
Without a sound, Mike’s shoulders began to shudder. Like Jericho, the once impenetrable walls of his prison began to crumble under the unfathomable weight of truth, love, freedom. Tears of release began to fall.
There, within the privacy of the round pen, the “hammer” fell … pounding into powder the stronghold of deception that had formerly enslaved a boy. The river of truth poured in, enveloping a young man’s heart in a deluge of relief. The flood came and returned that same heart … filled to overflowing … proving that the power of God’s love knows no bounds.
Hanson, without a single word, spoke truth into the life and heart of a young man. What was once broken and empty began to again bask in the warmth of unconditional love. It was a love without price or terms, a love without strings or conditions … arriving in peaceful silence from the Author of love.
&nbs
p; Perhaps to all others the scene looked much like a young man holding a young horse … yet, from my perspective it was clear … a young hostage was being set free.
It was early January. Lying quietly—and frozen under a silent layer of white—the ranch basked in weak rays of winter sunshine.
The call for help came into our ranch office just after lunch. As usual, Faith, the receptionist, answered the phone. Only moments later she shared with me how she had taken notes at a frantic pace in an effort to keep up with the impassioned woman on the other end of the line. Apparently the woman was a neighbor of some folks who owned horses on a piece of property that connected with their own. It sounded like they even shared the same driveway. The focus of the conversation centered on how she had been pleading with local organizations for approximately fourteen months to please come and intervene for the starving horses next door. According to her, one of them had just died. Her simple request remained the same: “Can you please come and help?”
Nearly everyone who was on the ranch responded by loading up into the truck while I ran to the house to get my camera. When I returned, Faith, Marie, and Karmen were in the cab waiting for me.
While driving to the location, I realized that none of these young women had ever been on a rescue team before. As we navigated the snowy roads, I briefed the girls as to what their “job” would be once we reached the scene. It was vitally important that we document everything, food source, water source, fencing, injuries, body condition. “See … all of the scene,” I encouraged.
The scene was only a few miles away, and we arrived much more quickly than we expected. The four remaining horses were in front of the ramshackle house and they were, indeed, in very bad condition. There was no evidence of a carcass. Perhaps the horse that had perished had done so earlier in the week.
Being unannounced and uninvited, I took advantage of what appeared to be no one at home and used a ridiculous amount of time just turning the truck around in their driveway. “Look … see everything, girls … this might be our only chance for a while,” I instructed, while bringing the truck around.
We noticed that it had lightly snowed the night before, giving our detective work a timeline.
I could see two bales of hay pushed under a dilapidated tractor trailer. One bale was opened and, as of this morning, a single, large flake of hay had been tossed into the corral. I assumed this was all that they had been fed for the day. One four-inch-thick square of hay to feed four horses! That amount was not even sufficient for one horse in warm weather.
Having already assumed that no one was home, we were all a bit surprised when a woman came walking toward the truck while pulling on a coat. “What do we do?! We’re caught on their property!” Marie burst out.
“We’re okay … all is well … everyone calm down and treat her with great respect and kindness … understood?” I reassured in a quiet voice. Solemn nods were my reward as I turned my attention back to the woman who was approaching my door.
After powering my window down, I shut the truck engine off so we could speak. “Hello, I hope that I am not intruding on your day … I couldn’t help but notice that you have some wonderful horses here …” The woman’s puzzled expression relaxed as I commented on how beautiful her two black and white pinto mares were. I noticed she also owned a very thin older mare and what looked like an emaciated weanling black filly.
“I can be such a sap when it comes to pretty horses … obviously, I cannot drive by them,” I said, while still trying to put our host at ease.
Perhaps realizing that we came in peace, the woman softened into a gracious host and invited all of us to leave the truck and enter the corral to pet her “babies.” I was very aware that while I engaged the woman, my staff was running their hands over each of the horses and mentally recording every detail.
While in the starving horses’ corral, I noticed that a light breeze had scattered the meager serving of hay across the pen. A small handful had blown within the tiny black filly’s reach. She silently moved toward the dozen or more straws of hay to consume them as quickly as possible. She ate as if her life depended on it, and by the looks of her skeletal form … it most certainly did.
The woman was more than happy to share with me how she had acquired her horses and what her future plans were with each one of them. As she continued to rattle off personal accounts of training adventures, I inconspicuously moved to the filly’s shoulder and placed my open hand on her withers. This is usually one of the safest and most non-threatening places to touch an unfamiliar horse. For young horses, it is also reminiscent of the favored place for a mother to lovingly groom her foal. Sadly, for this young horse, it was obvious that she was not accustomed to human touch.
Once the filly understood that it was a strange woman who was touching her, she instantly swung her head in an attempt to bite me. She missed. It was clear that even in her weakened state, she was going to fight me for those few stems of hay that had blown her way. With her expression she seemed to warn me, “I will die if I don’t eat this … it’s all I have.”
Poor baby girl I thought to myself, as I gently and cautiously stroked her neck, shoulder, and back.
With more effort than it should have taken, she drove her abnormally sharp hip bone toward me in a weak but aggressive move that clearly communicated that she would kick me if she could. I kept my hand firmly on her repulsively bony hip and stood fast. With this little girl, had I stepped back I would have placed myself in a position where she truly could have kicked me. Also, my moving away from her threat would have not only rewarded her bad behavior, in horse language it would have told her that she was undoubtedly the boss.
The owner didn’t seem to notice any of this and continued to share with me one horse story after another. Finally, during an appropriate break in our conversation, I asked her plainly, “Would you ever consider selling any of your horses?” Her eyes moved very slowly upward in a near forty-five-degree angle. She blinked a few times and then abruptly returned her gaze to me. “Maybe,” she finally answered.
After extremely gentle negotiations, we were able to convince the owner to sell us the very worst of the four starving equines—the black filly. Like a carrot dangling from a fishing pole, the promise of hay and cash was enough for her to finally oblige our request.
The girls were wonderful; each thoughtfully shook the woman’s hand and thanked her for her time and generosity in sharing her “family” with us. After climbing back into the truck, I started the engine and we all waved good-bye, promising to return as soon as possible to pick up the filly.
Once we were down the driveway, everyone nearly exploded in a released rush of information. Each of the girls did an excellent job in gathering and reporting the details that they noticed. Once the flourish of words died down, Karmen, who was quiet by nature, began to speak. The intense contrast between her clear blue eyes and dark hair always seemed to give her words a greater impact, a weightiness beyond their casual meaning. She said very quietly, almost to herself, “We’re getting the right one … it’s the little filly that is suffering the most.”
I reminded the girls that we needed to hurry because a greater time lapse offers owners a greater time frame to change their minds about releasing their horses. Although it is not a common occurrence, it has happened in the past.
During our return trip back to the ranch, we organized the completion of the rescue. Every member of the team was given a specific job to help facilitate the quick and safe release of this devastated little horse. Once at the ranch, I would hitch up the trailer and Karmen would help me load up as much hay as it would hold. Marie was responsible to find as much cash in the office as she could, while Faith made the appropriate calls to clear an opening in our time frame.
After all these tasks had been completed, our small team reunited at the cab of the truck, kicked the snow off our boots, and slid inside. While traveling back to recover the filly, we choreographed all our following actions.
As we drove down the drive toward the hungry horses, I noticed something interesting. Karmen saw it too. She turned back to look at me, perhaps wondering if I was thinking the same thing. I glanced at the horses and back at her … and smiled. In her quiet way, she smiled back and stated what we were both looking at: “The filly is waiting at the gate.”
Only two hours after the initial call for help, in what was surely a horse-recovery speed record, we were pulling up the driveway with the first rescued horse of the year.
Even though she was documented to be nearly two years of age, her actual size was that of a six-month-old baby. As a young quarter horse filly, she should have weighed twice her desperate 440 pounds. Her flesh hung from her spine like a sagging canvas over a tent pole. On this diminutive waif, the normally graceful arc that connects a horse’s head to its neck looked more like an old boot hanging on a broomstick. Her hooves were so small they didn’t even come close to filling the palm of my hand.
Her dull coat was nearly three inches long with large bald patches on either side of her neck. Her oozing and crusted skin was completely destroyed by one of the worst lice infestations I had ever seen. The poor little babe was literally being eaten alive by parasites.
Adding to her woes was the fact that her previous water source was a large galvanized tank with a dilapidated hose frozen tightly into an eight-inch-thick solid block. The ice was so old that it had substantially pulled away from the edges of the tank. As near as we could estimate by the length of the last deep cold spell, she had not had a drink of water for approximately eleven to thirteen days.
