by Kim Meeder
After many hours and many horses being processed through the main arena, it was clear that approximately seven out of ten horses were finding a home their first time in the ring.
The auction was winding down. It was nearly time for the “ICU” horses to be sold. Because these were blind, or severely lame, or ruthlessly starved, they were to be auctioned off directly from their private corrals that had been constructed the day before. Even though all these horses were improved, for some the stress of walking too far was more strain than we wished to enforce on them. At this stage in their recovery, it was easier to have the potential buyers walk the short distance down to them.
The auctioneer announced that those with a special benevolence for the ICU horses would need to leave the stadium and file down toward the horses’ corrals. I was amazed and deeply pleased to see how many individuals came down and gathered around “the hospital” in hopes of purchasing the most needy horses of the event.
I left my post-position as a volunteer … to become a bidder. After climbing up and finding a seat on top of a confluence of metal panels, I was better able to look over the crowd and see which horse was being auctioned. Because these horses could not be individually presented to the group, the group was required to crowd around each pen as they were being auctioned off.
As fate would have it, the auctioneer started at the far end of the makeshift ICU ward. That meant that “my” horse would be sold next to last.
The auction staggered on with the brutal lethargy of a slug going up hill. I am certain that I could actually see my own hair growing longer! Waiting for the moment of revelation—would I have more days to love this little waif, or not?—was by now a painful process. Would I drive away from this place with an empty trailer … or one filled with the skinniest, furriest, stinkiest, most lovable little horse I had ever seen?
“Number 567 … number 567 … a bay filly is next!” The auctioneer’s words jolted through my chest like electricity …
This is it, I thought to myself. The auctioneer began: “The bidding will start at … at … hmm. Well this little lady sure needs a home, so the bidding will start at one hundred dollars. Do I hear one-twenty-five? One-twenty-five? One-twenty-five? …”
Slightly huddled against the cold, she stood before them all wearing the most common color a horse can have. She looked more like a half-sheep, half-horse apparition than something anyone would want to buy. She was so unsightly, so pathetic, so unlovely … that the crowd was silent … dead silent. Not one person signaled a bid. The only sounds to be heard among the multitude came from folks quietly blowing into their cold hands and rubbing them together for warmth.
There she stood … within the midst of a large crowd … and not one person wanted her. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Of all these people, was there no one else?” I smiled broadly as I thought to myself, “I will be that one, I will be the one girl who loves the ugly, skinny, furry, stinky little horse.”
Before I could raise my number, the auctioneer jerked to a new level of droning melodrama. “One hundred twenty-five! Do I hear one-fifty? One-fifty? One-fifty?” Immediately I noticed a man who had apparently been scratching his head and had accidentally been mistaken for casting a bid. He was desperately trying to get the auctioneer’s attention and convince him it was all a mistake! He made it urgently clear to those around him that he did not want a horse that looked like her!
I did want her! Raising my numbered bidding card over my head, I waved it like a checkered flag at the end of a grueling race … for to me, that’s exactly what it was. “One hundred fifty once … twice … Sold! For one hundred and fifty dollars to the happy woman on the fence!”
“God, You are so good!” I said, as I slipped down off the panels, into the crowd. A man, hearing me and recognizing that I had just purchased the ugly horse in front of him, turned around and looked at me as if I had two heads! I smiled at him as I made my way through the crush toward my horse’s corral. Prohibited from entering until the crowds moved away, I reached through the panels and ran my hand down as much of her neck as I could reach. Her head was not far from me. While looking into her eye nearest me, I realized that I hadn’t dared until now to speak her name out loud … my precious “Phoenix” was coming home!
As I drove home, I couldn’t help but let my thoughts and emotions soar. Lord, this could have turned out so many different ways. Thank You for this … all of this.
While contemplating all that had happened, it occurred to me that, just like our once unwanted and unloved property, trees, horses, and kids, so too this horse had come to us in a “superficial” state of disrepair. If she were truly revealed today as all that she would become tomorrow—just like our property, trees, horses, and kids—I would be completely unable to afford her; I would have no access into her life. It was precisely her “ugliness” that became the common key.
It was precisely my “ugliness phase,” the season of time in my life when I was struggling to grow through the tragic loss of both my parents, that prepared my heart for all that was to come. I didn’t realize it then, but that was the time when I was being “readied” to reach out to those around me who were struggling through their own “ugly phases.”
Perhaps the most important thing to remember about an “ugly phase” within ourselves and those around us is that it’s just that … a phase. It has a beginning and an end.
A phase can be much like the burned-up pine trees that Troy was once dispatched to take to the dump. Even though they had been through a fire and looked completely dead, when he scratched their bark … they were still green inside. While blackened and destroyed on the outside … they were still alive on the inside. Troy saw what they could become if given the opportunity to grow through their blackness. With time and care these same “throw-away” trees have grown through their charred past and grace our property with beauty to this day. I am so intensely grateful that in the times of my life when I was blackened and dead on the outside … the Lord did not cast me away; He knew that there was life within me still.
What an incredible honor and privilege it has been to follow the lead of my Lord and reach through the flames to pull out those who might temporarily be a little blackened and ugly on the outside, while knowing for a fact that there is life within them still. Just like me many years ago, what they needed most was a helping hand and someone to truly see them and believe in all that they could become.
It was the largest horse rescue in Oregon’s history. And I was proud to be driving home with the most desperate, blackened, ugly horse of the entire herd. She was just like me … and I couldn’t wait to see all that she was to become.
Cole, age 5, when trying to explain
how exciting riding is: “When I ride a horse,
it just makes my blood wiggle!”
Love matters … perhaps more than we know. Pure love, refined of all the dross the world associates with it, changes our very foundations.
It is easy to become so caught up in how we think certain things should happen that we fail to realize that healing, release, forgiveness … “life” happens outside the little box of our understanding. Love can be like that.
Phoenix—whose name had been lovingly softened into a more feminine “Phoebe”—had finally come home. After her twilight-hour rescue and months in an intensive care facility, she was, at last, living on the ranch. Even after months of extensive nursing, she was still so shocking to look at that we prepared a special “recovery” paddock for her behind the main arena. This usually gave the staff and me a bit more time to verbally prepare our visitors for what they were about to see when meeting our newest charge.
The rampant lanugo that had once covered her body to conserve heat was now beginning to loosen its grip in the warmer days of spring. Handfuls of nearly three-inch-long wads of greasy hair were starting to fall off her body. Like an awkward puzzle, each newly revealed “piece” gave a tiny glimpse of the slender horse that was beginning to emerge.
Although she had been handled a great deal since her rescue, she was still in the process of becoming socialized with people. Much of Phoebe’s early care was quite unpleasant for her, as it consisted of a myriad of vaccination and deworming cycles. Despite vetting discomforts, she was learning to trust. Daily it was becoming clearer to this little horse that regardless of her many unpleasant clinical procedures, people were generally kind and desired to give her much good will.
As Phoebe continued her quiet rehabilitation, the ranch staff and I started to see a very interesting pattern materialize. After her rescue from nearly fatal starvation and neglect, we wished to bring comfort, acceptance, relaxation, and general hygiene back to this orphan by simply spending time brushing her. Because brushing a horse is intrinsically a very nurturing act, on several occasions I encouraged women I knew—who had been through much abuse themselves—to just go and spend time brushing Phoebe.
There were many instances where I witnessed these same abused, battered, and neglected women come out of Phoebe’s paddock in tears. When I asked them if everything was all right, to my surprise, they gave me remarkably similar answers: “I know that this just seems so silly … I really can’t explain it … but when I am next to that little horse … just being with her … this small creature who has survived so much hardship … somehow she just seems to help me believe that I’m going to be all right too.”
I knew exactly what these women were trying to communicate—because when I spent time with Phoebe, I felt the same way.
There was no denying it. Something about this simple little horse was changing many of those who spent time with her.
From its very humble beginning, the ranch has fervently sought to serve those in need. Our ministry works hard to provide a unique place where the broken—broken of any kind—can find healing. Within our community, we shoulder with nearly every organization that deals with youth and family.
One group that we take great joy in serving is a local juvenile justice facility. Teenage boys work hard through a predetermined “levels” system to earn the right to come out to our ranch. For years, we have come to know them as being a truly spectacular group of young men. They are always polite, helpful, and willing to assist us with any task we lay before them. It has been my general observation that they are all really great guys who, for the most part, have had very weak parenting … especially from their fathers. For most, it appears that there has never been an upright, moral man in their lives to simply show them the way.
I love these guys … and they know it! It is such an inspiration to see them come to the ranch with a totally “clean slate” and watch them practice who they wish to become in the future. I rarely know anything about them or their background, so in my eyes, they get to rehearse being the perfect gentlemen.
Our day was just getting started when Sevi and Chloe, my two blue-heelers, announced that the boys had arrived slightly early. At the ranch, we do not wish to begin any day without first praying for every soul who might walk up our hill. I silently dismissed myself from the circle of bowed heads and gently closed the bunkhouse door behind me. I could see that there were about six young men walking with their counselor into the main yard of the ranch.
A few of the boys I knew well; some I did not know at all. Of the scattered details that I was aware of, it was my understanding that one of the boys coming today—I was told his name was Matt—would be here for his first time. He had been born to a mother who, perhaps during her pregnancy, loved drugs more than him. Her substance abuse had left him with a misshapened arm and hand. I was informed that he was an amazing young man who had grown up fighting with the world trying to prove that … he was not a freak.
As I walked down to meet the boys, I welcomed them with some goofy “Kim” greeting. Truly, I don’t even know what I said; what I do know is that it is always my intention to make the boys feel “special” and at ease.
Introductions flowed easily between us. The boys stood in a loose circle, each acknowledging me in his own distinctive way. A few gave me a hug, some shook my hand, and a couple spoke their name and looked straight at the ground. As I continued to welcome the group, I was acutely aware of how much Matt did not want me to see his arm.
While acting completely oblivious to his “uniqueness” and treating him just like any other boy who comes to the ranch, I could feel my heart dropping like a very heavy anchor within my chest. I could not even begin to understand what his life must be like—the quick glances that snap back into long stares, the misguided questions, the torment from his weak-hearted peers.
This boy, who was hardly a boy in stature because he was already taller and heavier then I was, wanted me to see him for … him … not as the kid who was in any way different from any of the other guys in the circle.
His eyes told the story. They were a beautiful, clear blue that seemed to balance tenuously between acceptance and defiance. He very much wanted my approval and acceptance of him; otherwise he would have had no reason to hide his arm from me. Yet, if I were to disrespect him in any way, even a minimal way, I am certain that his defiance would rise up like a bitter shield of defense … once again attempting to deflect the crushing force of rejection.
There beneath the cool, midday sunshine of spring, within the midst of those young men, the Lord turned my attention toward another soul on the ranch who had known an entire lifetime of rejection.
“Boys, I need your help today,” I began, as I started to verbally prepare them for what they were about to see. “We have a new horse on the ranch. She is the most severe rescue case we have ever seen.” I continued to explain to them what she had been, what she was now, and … by God’s grace … what she would become.
“She is just like you and me,” I stated. “On the outside, she’s a bit rough to look at, but her extraordinary inside is showing through more and more each day. Because she has accepted herself how she is … she’s getting stronger and more beautiful by the minute.”
I told the boys that I needed their help to continue her socialization process. “When you enter her paddock, remember that she is still recovering and is extremely shy. I would be so grateful if you would just stand very quietly and, if she chooses, allow her to come to you.”
With their instructions firmly in place, the boys sauntered back toward her corral behind the arena. I held the gate open for them as they quietly stepped past me. Together, there were seven of us all standing in a vague semicircle. The group seemed a bit unimpressed as they stood as one waiting to help something they hadn’t yet seen. They did not realize that she was resting in the shade of her wind shelter just beyond their view.
Moments seemed to silently blow by like lazy dandelion spores. Amongst the young men, I could see the tiny yet unmistakable indications of their impatience beginning to rise. Mild irritation snuck out like escaping steam through the cracks of a big sigh, shifting weight, arms across chest, hands shoved in pockets, and nearly uncontrollable twitching. I smiled to myself as I recognized that for the young, simply “waiting” can be torture. Perhaps it isn’t until we are older that we begin to fully realize how incredibly precious each moment of our life is. So much of the fullness of our lives comes from what we choose to see between the lines.
I looked over to see my true embodiment of “between the lines” peek around the wall of the wind shelter to see who had come to visit her. With the timid eyes of a doe, she pondered the boys for several moments. Then, like a nearly invisible mist moving over a river, barely seen and never heard, she silently ventured out of her security toward the boys.
All signs of irritation and impatience shattered like thin ice beneath the weight of her shocking presence. A long, low “Whoooooooooaaaaaa” slipped through the lips of one onlooker as he tried to comprehend the tortured creature that was approaching him.
In complete submission tinged with a hint of curiosity, she drifted toward our half sphere with her head lowered slightly and her eyes up. Like a shy
lily reaching for the sun, she stretched her nose toward the boy closest to her.
After considering him for a moment, she reached out to another boy on the opposite side of our semicircle. As if collectively holding their breath, the boys stood in complete silence, instinctively holding very still. Their frozen posture indicated how sweetly evident it was that none of the boys wished to frighten this timid soul.
She carefully inspected every visitor in the group. After what appeared to be private contemplation, Phoebe gave the impression that she arrived at a definitive decision and then did something completely unexpected … she looked straight at Matt, stepped forward, and pressed her forehead flat against his chest!
I fully acknowledge that the mysteries of equine communication still baffle me at times. Of all those in the group, including myself … she chose Matt … the one most like her … the one that longed most for acceptance.
It was obvious that Matt didn’t know what to do. Searching for what should be his reaction, his eyes shot between hers and mine. Finally, without a word, in an attempt to “pet” her, he raised his right hand and just sort of popped her on the top of the head a few times. Instantly, Phoebe threw her head out of harm’s way and looked at him with very startled eyes!
One of the boys to my left tried to stifle a smirk. “Gently, Matt,” I said. “Gently … quietly put your hand on her and just keep it there. Make small circles on her coat … she really loves that.”
As Matt began to smooth his hands over the little horse, I could see the expression on his face begin to change. For him, the rest of the world just fell away. Here was a young man experiencing, perhaps for the first time, what it really meant to look and live between the lines. With as little disturbance as possible, I silently moved the rest of the boys out of the paddock.
