by Kim Meeder
Brian, age 4: “You know what
I want to be when I grow up?
A man.”
As far back as I can remember, the first day of May, or May Day, was always an excuse to love my grandma with flowers. She was an avid gardener, and flowers were always one of her favorite things. Even before my parents’ death, before Grandma’s home became mine, I remember how important this day was for us both.
It began when I was seven years old and continued for the next thirty-four years until she passed away.
Originally, I remember yanking handfuls of wadded-up yellow buttercups out of what was later to become a horse pasture and mashing them into an old mason jar full of water. The trick was to do a “mission impossible” up to the front door of the house, leave the flowers on the doormat, ring the doorbell, then run like a wild animal into the grapevines that grew on a low fence around the front yard. I discovered early on that this was one of the best places to hide while still being able to peek through the dense leaves and see her honest reaction to such random kindness.
The game continued, without fail, though grade school, middle school, junior high, high school, college, marriage, more college, careers, sports—every season in my life was metered and grounded by this one simple, annual event that was just between us. May Day always represented my little “stake in the sand” opportunity to gather flowers for my grandmother and somehow get them to her doorstep without ever being seen or caught.
I am certain that on many occasions the neighbors had a good laugh at the adult granddaughter of their elderly neighbor who lived across the way. Watching a grown woman dressed head to toe in black, diving from bush to tree to rock until she was able to belly-crawl to the front door and leave flowers … and then run away like her backside was on fire! It makes me laugh out loud to think that I did that every year for thirty-four years!
Part of the game was that since she never caught me, technically, she never could really be truly sure that the flowers were from me. She knew they were, and I knew she knew. But she could never actually prove it … which always gave us reason to laugh together.
Finally, at the generous age of eighty-nine, it was time for my precious grandma to go home. She died in August, the month I was born. Somehow, this “coincidence” has continually given me great comfort. For me, it has always felt like a “passing of the torch”: “Honey, now it is your turn to run the race. Enjoy every moment, carry a smile on your face, the truth of Christ in your heart, and flowers in your hand …” For all that she had sacrificed for me, it is not an impression that I will ever be without.
As with everyone who has suffered great personal loss, it is no secret that the following year can be marked by many painful “firsts.” The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first birthday, and for me the most painful was coming … the first May Day. This was our special day, a silly, symbolic pact between us celebrated by a goofy little thing I did so she would always be reminded of how much I loved her.
Grieving is a process as unique as each individual. I have also experienced that within this “course of action,” every individual at some point has the ability to literally choose “action.” For those who are dealing with loss, grieving can lead either to anger, brokenness, and continuing personal destruction, or we can choose for it to lead to joy, fullness, and continuing personal growth.
My little grandma was one of the happiest people I had ever known. Lord, life is short … I choose joy, I thought with resolve. Yes, this was a very special time for us. Lord … show me how I can continue to pass that gift on, I pondered as the days proceeded toward the first of May. I guess that a solution will present itself, I conceded when no great, concrete ideas suddenly materialized.
A few days later, it was early morning and I was hustling to gather my keys, jacket, and water bottle, grab my cell phone, and rush out the … I nearly stepped right on them! There they were … sitting on my door step … smiling up at me … a beautiful basket full of bright yellow flowers …
Everything stopped.
The cool air of morning rushed in all around me as I just stood there holding the door open. On this day, as there had been nearly all my life, lay flowers on a doorstep. Only this year … hey were on my doorstep. I couldn’t move. I just couldn’t believe someone else would understand or really even care that this was a little gesture that had great personal value to me. But someone did …
Standing in the doorway, with early morning light as my witness, I slowly knelt down … picked the flowers up … held them to my chest … and cried. “Oh, Grandma … if you only knew …”
To this day, every May first, flowers mysteriously appear on the deck in front of my door. I have no idea who the giver might be. I have never seen them, nor have they ever been caught. I have always wondered, whoever it might be, if they really understand the incredible gift they have blessed my life with by helping to keep my grandma’s memory close. I wonder if they know how truly special it is to be remembered in such a personal way. I wonder if they know that because of their remembrance … in this heart … something remarkable has happened.
Being remembered feels good. It reminds us that we are special to someone. The size or quantity of the “remembrance” really isn’t as important to us as the fact that … we just are.
Many psychology studies have concluded over and over again that one of the greatest driving forces of the human heart … is simply to be needed.
To need another person should beget thanking them as well. Sometimes we can do that in uniquely simple ways. And if we are faithful in this endeavor … every now and then, something remarkable happens.
Bruises are evidence of where subdural bleeding has occurred. They are visual and often painful reminders of blows we have received. But unlike wounds, bruises do not leave scars. In time, deep purple turns into a rainbow of blue, violet, pink, and sometimes even a strangely beautiful yellowish green. Eventually our natural skin color returns and we are to the outside world “back to normal.” Yet, like our scars, our bruises can teach us so much more than just about pain.
I had great reason to think about the bruising blows I had received in my own life as I hiked alone one afternoon through the Cascade wilderness. While making my way up the eastern flank of a ridge toward a connecting pass, my rising footsteps were measured with nearly rhythmic “crunches” as my boots broke through the crusty snow of early spring. With the air temperature already in the twenties and rising fast, combined with the crystal blue skies overhead, this certainly qualified as one of the first “bluebird” days of the year.
As the top of the ridge rounded into view, I could feel the typical northwest air flow ruffle my clothing. It was nearly time to pray.
Lord, I have so many questions … My thoughts were completely interrupted as the power of the Three Sisters Mountains towered into my view. God, You are so amazing … Once I found a special place to be still, it was time to thank the Lord for life, and to ask for some well-placed guidance.
The ranch staff and I had been contacted by thousands of people who had read the book Hope Rising. Immediately, a resounding theme began to emerge through this correspondence: “You are living my dream. I never knew it was possible until now … Will you show me how to do the same thing?” Daily, it became an echoing cry for reassurance, encouragement, and help.
Who am I, Lord, to show them the way? I thought, in full recognition of all my mistakes and shortcomings. Sometimes I feel like nothing more than a bare-fisted prize fighter who gets the stuffings beat out of him every other day. Often, I am bruised and bloodied. Perhaps my only real “talent” is just getting back up from all the times that I have been knocked down.
For all those looking for direction … Lord, I’m just a simple rancher who loves kids and horses and lives in a nine-acre converted rock pit. My honest inadequacies were confessed aloud to Sevi and Chloe, my blue-heeler companions, who were hiking with me. As is customary for me, I had found a particularly b
eautiful viewpoint and began quieting my heart to pray.
There, in the silence, blowing gently through the trees and swirling into my heart, a familiar, peaceful response began to whisper: “You are a simple rancher who loves kids and horses and lives in a nine-acre converted rock pit … why not you? You are entangled with the same mistakes and shortcomings as everyone else … why not you? You are a small pebble plucked from a stream, and when thrown by My hand, giants in the lives of those around you have fallen; it is not your strength, but Mine … why not you?”
Sevi and Chloe, sensing that I had completely stilled, followed suit and curled up nose to stubby tail on randomly blown piles of pine needles. With the wind as my witness and hope as my guide, the lingering resistance that once gripped my heart began to crumble away. In the stillness, I could feel it falling until it dashed against the rocks beneath my feet and shattered into irreparable fragments over the melting snow.
Sometimes clarity happens in the most unlikely places—on a mountaintop, in the shower, in bed before sleep, or driving to complete an errand. My time on the ridge-top enforced within me that sometimes it is our “bruising,” our weakness, that is truly the most powerful and honest truth we can share. Perhaps it is enough to encourage others by simply stating, “Friends, here are some of the areas where I have fallen. Let me take your hand and guide you around these perils that … by stepping forward in faith … you will be sure to encounter.”
The hosting of Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch’s first “Information Clinic” was incredible! Because of the ranch’s limited size, we thought that between forty to fifty participants would be a good fit. Nearly one hundred people came from twenty-three states and Canada! I felt more like royalty than a rancher, as each came bearing their own irreplaceable gifts of blessing to my heart. Within the first hour of gathering together, most of us agreed that this truly felt more like a family reunion than a clinic.
During each of the four days of the clinic, the participants were deluged with every angle of information we could think of that might be of help to them. Together we shared our dreams, laughed at each other’s humorous vignettes, worked hard to learn new concepts, ate many meals, and even sang around a fire.
Each unique individual’s story seemed to weave seamlessly into the next, all together creating an indescribably beautiful tapestry of selflessness, sacrifice, and love. Rarely have I been surrounded by so many individuals who were so focused and united in their pursuit to become a light in their world, to grow where they were “planted,” and to offer hope, love, and healing to those around them … through their own sacrifice.
As I lay in bed during those nights of the clinic, I couldn’t help but look up through the window at the night sky. The clinic participants were just like this, I thought. Cast against such blackness, they were indeed stars radiating hope through a gloomy void. They were sharing with those around them, literally shining, that hope will continue to provide points of light through even the darkest night, guiding the way until dawn’s first rays promise the herald of a new day. There will always be a new day.
They moved me, every one of them.
Perhaps what I thought were some of the most interesting parts of the clinic were the “demonstration classes.” Sprinkled throughout each day were hands-on demonstrations of how to train your horses, how to train yourselves, how to communicate with kids, how to organize a volunteer program, and how to build a supportive staff, just to name a few.
One demonstration that for me, eleven years of observing has not diminished in the least, was watching the farrier trim hooves. Sue is not only a remarkable woman but a remarkable farrier as well. Because she is such an engaging teacher, I always come away with something new from our time spent together.
Often, Sue relates horse hooves to our personal lives, linking the two by how important it is to stay balanced. What might seem like a minor disparity in the hoof can translate up the horse’s leg into real trouble. How true that principle can be in our own lives with things that we might delude ourselves into believing that “it’s no big deal” or “it doesn’t affect anyone but me.” Eventually, if unattended, our personal imbalances will reveal themselves in some pretty unpleasant ways.
Probably what I love most about watching Sue correct, reshape, and balance a hoof is how she handles bruises. As awful and debilitating as they may appear in the sole of a horse’s hoof, they can be carefully managed. Of all the times that I have watched my dear friend carve away bruises, I am always amazed at the renewal, the fresh perfection that lies waiting to be revealed just beneath the sight of a painful experience.
As the clinic drew to a close, many expressed their gratitude with emotion, laughter, and quietly revealed dreams. Within the four days of sharing information, I was continually amazed at what precious gems of wisdom were mined by these individuals from what often seemed to me like nothing more than a simple matrix.
One woman, in a rare vignette of silence, shared with me that she had an epiphanal moment during the clinic. I watched her intently as she began to describe her unique experience. She was a slender woman with dark features. As she started to share, I could clearly see that this was going to be costly for her. From the very first few words, she worked hard to control her emotions. In a not-so-steady voice, she recounted how this powerful moment came while watching Sue trim a hoof.
In a strong yet quiet voice, she shared that just recently her own dream—her own life’s work—had been crushed. “I used to do something very similar to what you are doing now,” she softly said. “Within two days, it was all gone … everything. Everything I had worked so hard for, everything I believed in, was taken away in a single moment.”
Her gaze seemed to be fixed on the letters I held in my hand. “When I came here, I was so deeply bruised, she continued. “My life felt like it could never be the same again. Perhaps I came to this clinic because I needed to believe that somehow my hurting heart could change into something usable again. Maybe I just needed to see with my own eyes that miracles really do still happen.”
Visibly, she softened for a moment before simply stating, “God is so good. Two days ago I stood in a semicircle of about twenty-five people and watched a horse’s hoof being trimmed. As Sue scraped the sole, she revealed a large purple bruise. As I studied the bruise, it suddenly occurred to me that I was looking at myself! Yep, that is just like my heart right there … one big, hideous bruise. I found myself staring at it and just feeling overwhelming sorrow.
“But then something remarkable happened,” she said, in rising revelation. “Sue picked up her hoof knife and began to carefully cut into the bruised area. She explained that as awful as a bruise can look and feel … time always proves what is true. ‘A bruise needs to be absorbed,’ Sue clarified. ‘After the hoof grows out away from the once damaged vessels, the dead tissue needs to be removed.’
“And then with two expertly placed cuts from her hoof knife … the horrible bruise that at one time had caused so much pain … was gone … completely gone! What lay beneath it was a beautiful, brand-new white hoof! I didn’t know until that moment that my heart was going to be just like that hoof.”
The woman looked directly at my eyes and beamed, “I realized during that moment that I must absorb and learn from my ‘bruise.’ ”
I fully understood what she was trying to say. Immediately I could think of dozens of times when this principle was true in my life as well. When we are caught in a season of feeling bruised and in pain, it is often difficult at that time to believe we can feel any other way. Pain is crushing, blinding, paralyzing. It is not unlike the venom of a predator, meant only to numb its prey into uselessness. There, in that “feeling useless” place, we have a choice to make. We can decide to stay paralyzed in our pain, or we can decide to take steps toward our healing.
Sometimes within our healing process some “dead flesh” needs to be excised away. Sometimes the knife of the Maker is needed to release us from our “dead spots” that h
old us back from an honest recovery. This might smart a bit at the time, but what is revealed beneath that deadness is always worth the choice.
The woman’s eyes gradually began to soften as she took a deep breath before continuing. “Now I understand that the next cutting away of my ‘deadness’ might be the last release of my pain from this particular ‘blow.’ Perhaps,” she paused for a long breath, “the next swipe of our Lord’s knife will reveal a fresh newness within me that wasn’t there before.”
She began to smile as she realized the wisdom of her own words. “Until now, I never really understood that the most beautiful thing about a bruise … is that they come … and last until they are absorbed … and then they go!”
David, age 11: “If I could choose between playing
my favorite video games for a week straight or going
to the ranch … I would always choose the ranch.”
Never in all my years of operating the ranch have I ever experienced such severe “buyers remorse.” I had just purchased a very short, very chubby Appaloosa mare. Shonee was certainly cute enough within her roly-poly white body that was completely freckled with black spots. Yet the true reason for the sale by her previous owner—of one week—was the mare’s nearly complete refusal to turn or stop at her rider’s request. Certainly, those are both truly important features for a kid’s horse to have!
Nevertheless, there was something about her that spoke to me. Initially, she appealed to me because of her goofy stature. She was not only disproportionately short for her body; she was also incredibly strong.
