Flash

by Rachel Anne Ridge

  We looked at each other, and the light dawned. Flash! That was it!

  Flash. As in a speeding superhero who comes to the rescue of one in distress. We chuckled at the thought of our new donkey in a mask emblazoned with lightning bolts, stopping to take a nap en route to thwarting a crisis. Yes, it was perfect. The kids approved.

  As soon as Flash was named, we knew without saying that his probation had ended and he could now be considered a bona fide member of the family. We walked right into it, eyes wide open.

  Here’s a piece of advice that comes free with this book: Rescuer, beware. As soon as you name a stray animal, it’s yours. For better or for worse. Yours, baby. You need to think about that the next time you pick up a stray kitty and start calling her “Pookie” while you’re trying to find a home for her. Face it—Pookie is yours, and she became yours the minute you pronounced those two syllables.

  Flash was ours for keeps, and we fell in love with him. He shed his shaggy winter hair, revealing a smooth, gray-brown coat that made him look positively sleek. Even his ears lost most of their wool and became silky soft, especially at their base near the knob on the top of his head. He loved having the insides of these long, tubular appendages rubbed and looked forward to any attention that came his way.

  Being groomed became his favorite pastime, and I used it as a bonding opportunity, talking to him as I worked the brush over his body. He seemed interested in my chatter, so I filled him in on our projects, kept him abreast of our family activities, and told him whatever came to my mind. His ears followed my voice, turning this way and that, and he’d nod every now and then, suggesting his response: “Go on, tell me more.” I quickly realized he was the perfect listener, the kind who makes you feel he has all the time in the world for your story. Whenever the currycomb came out, he relaxed into a puddle of equine bliss. You could almost see him smile. Flash’s shyness slowly melted away, and we began to see glimpses of an outgoing personality.

  Flash made himself at home at our place. Our yellow, 1970s barn-shaped house, properly deemed “gambrel style,” sat next to his new pasture and gave us a prime view of his activities. He had it made: an abundance of wide-open space to aimlessly wander under a big sky, a barn for shelter, and two acres of shady woods to explore.

  Four years earlier, when we had found the property through an ad in the paper, we had no use for most of it, except to store supplies in the empty barn. We gladly abandoned our suburban life and set about making the rented fixer-upper our home—on a dime, of course. Though just twenty miles outside of the Dallas metroplex, it felt like a world away from the city.

  The quarter-mile driveway wound atop a dam, past a pond, and through some woods before coming around to the house in a clearing. The “charming farmhouse” (as described in the paper) contained some strange features, such as a toilet crammed so close to the wall that it required sidesaddle positioning and a sense of humor to make it work. But once we replaced the carpet and painted the antiseptic, white semigloss walls and ceilings with pleasant new colors, it felt like a real home.

  The kids’ bedrooms were nestled under the sloping eaves of the barnlike roof and had dormer window seats—perfect spots for daydreaming, which we encouraged. Though tiny, the kitchen had plenty of faux wood countertops and enough cabinet space for all our cookware. As I washed dishes, I could look out the window to an ever-changing view of grasses and wildflowers in a field that sloped down to a wooded creek bed.

  Mighty bur oaks, red oaks, and cedars filled the woods and transformed with the seasons, providing an endless array of beauty. We’ve been starved for this. We soaked it in. Granted, the septic system backed up regularly, and almost every fixture needed replacing. But those were small hindrances. Our family could breathe here, and the eighteen acres of land that came with the house was more than we could have hoped for. It became our sanctuary in the midst of our tightrope walk of financial insecurity. We had no money, but the view was priceless.

  With his calm presence gracing the property, Flash seemed to complete our new lifestyle. It just felt right to have hay bales on hand for our “livestock,” to check fences for needed repairs, and to pet an eager nose over the gate. Even Beau seemed to resign himself to sharing our affection with another animal, although he made a point to bark at Flash whenever he could.

  We had only had Flash for a couple of months when our landlords stopped by to visit. They’d just moved into an old cottage that was on the same property we rented from them, which now made us neighbors. A Louisiana–born-and-bred blonde belle, Bridgette made a striking contrast to her husband, Steve, a tall, bearded Midwesterner. Where Bridgette was vivacious and talkative, Steve was reserved and quiet. While Steve favored flannel shirts and jeans, Bridgette always looked as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine, her athletic figure accentuated by slim skirts and fitted blouses. Bridgette had pioneered a prestigious architectural design firm in Dallas and represented everything I was not: beautiful, educated, confident, successful, worldly, fit, stylish, professional. I avoided her as often as possible. Which was not easy, since they now neighbored us.

  Bridgette and Steve had recently married and shed their fabulous careers and chic downtown Dallas loft to strike out on their own as entrepreneurs. Everything about them was cool—even the fact they had downsized to the small house on the property. They designed corporate spaces from their front porch by day and worked in their organic garden in the evenings. I’m quite sure they loved hummus and knew all about fine wines.

  Beneath the shade of the cedar trees that lined the pasture, we chitchatted about the weather and caught up on the neighborhood news. Just then, Flash meandered up to the gate, looking for an ear scratch.

  “Have you met our new donkey?” I asked, turning to see if they were impressed.

  “Oh, we’ve already made friends with this guy,” Bridgette drawled as she reached forward, her expensive bracelets clanking. “Idn’t he jus’ adorable! We jus’ love him.”

  We smiled like proud new parents, pleased with their progeny. Yes, Flash was a real member of the family. A keeper. We started to gush about his emerging qualities, but what we heard next silenced the words on our lips.

  “And guess what!” Bridgette continued, enthusiasm spilling. “We’ve given him the perfect name!”

  Our smiles froze in place. Wait. You’ve done what?

  She paused dramatically as we stared, wide-eyed in disbelief. With a flourish, she went for the Big Reveal. “His name is . . . Hay-soos! You know, it’s a Spaynish name!” She clapped her hands together in delight. “Idn’t that perfect?”

  Perfect? No, not in the least. Jesús, while a common name in Spanish, would never be used for my donkey, who already had a name: Flash.

  “Well, hi, Hay-soos! How ya doin’?” she greeted Flash as he nosed in for more affection. She pronounced “hi” like “hah,” and it suddenly grated on my nerves. Flash clearly did not share my misgivings about this name because he homed right in on the attention.

  So pleased with their excellent naming of our animal, these well-meaning neighbors seemed oblivious to our awkward protest that he’d already been named Flash. By us. His owners. The people he belongs to. The ones who own him. Yeah. Nope, they just kept talking.

  “Hay-soos is so entertaining! We just love giving him carrots over the fence and tickling those big ol’ lips of his!” They laughed, throwing their heads back in delight. But all we could hear was “Hay-soos this” and “Hay-soos that,” and each time, we became more annoyed.

  The nerve. To name someone else’s pet. Why, I’d never dream of going over to their house and presuming to rename one of their fancy cats. My back prickled.

  I heard Miss Southern Belle, Bridgette, calling Flash from her backyard. “Yoo-hoo! Hah, Hay-soos! Come heah, darlin!” she cooed. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth.

  “Don’t go, Flash. Don’t go over there. Don’t answer to that!” I sent thought waves to encapsulate my new donkey in a protective me
ntal force field, willing him to stay away.

  But no. Uh-uh. Flash appeared to be completely over his initial shyness as he trotted over to the fence, happy as a clam to respond to his alias—especially if there were carrots involved. Day after day, I watched in disgust as he sold his dignity for a handout. Flash, where is your self-respect?

  This could mean only one thing: war. A subtle war. I hitched up my mom jeans and applied some lipstick. A shot of hair spray. Ready.

  I dropped Flash’s name into every conversation with our neighbors, whether it fit the context or not.

  “Nice weather we’re having! Flash sure is enjoying it.” I emphasized his name with just a little edge and waited for their response, which never came.

  “Oh, what a lovely outfit you’re wearing. I should call Flash over here to admire it.”

  “I hear there’s a new movie coming out. I sure wish I could take Flash to see it.”

  I made a point of correcting every mention of the unmentionable name I heard. But, having been raised in church, I did it only in the nicest, sweetest way possible, so as to keep my Christian witness.

  Bridgette said, “I just loove to heah Hay-soos bray! He just makes me happy.”

  “Oh, I know.” I smiled. “Flash can certainly make some noise. Flash is so silly. Flash really likes to hear himself.” My strategy seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  Undaunted, I employed another tactic: I spoke directly to Flash himself. He obviously needed a good talking-to so he would stop running over to Bridgette every time she called him by that other name. Not his real name. The name that somebody else dubbed him.

  I took my donkey’s shaggy head into my hands and looked into his warm, brown eyes. He flared his nostrils and gave me an innocent look in return. His muzzle hairs poked in all directions, giving him an extra boost of audaciousness.

  “Flash,” I said. “Baby, you’ve got to stop this business of responding to ‘Hay-soos’ every time you hear it, when that is not your name. You already have a name: Flash. It’s Flash, because I own you, and I’m the only one who has the right to name you. Other people can call you any other name in the book, but get this straight: That’s not your name. You belong to me. You are mine. Therefore, whatever name I’ve given you—that’s your name.”

  I saw a spark of understanding in his expression, so I let him go. But not without one last mom glare and a two-finger point from my eyes to his and back again that told him I meant business. I wanted to see a change in his behavior, and that was that. He lowered his head and kicked the dirt. Yes, he obviously understood.

  Now if I could only get over feeling intimidated by our wildly successful neighbors and flat out tell Bridgette and Steve to knock it off. But I somehow couldn’t bring myself to confront them. I felt fine with light, brief conversation and thinly veiled hints, but I’d seen Bridgette’s website with her impressive bio, the list of prestigious boards she served on, and the glossy photographs of all her high-end corporate architectural designs . . . and the words just stuck in my throat. My paint-splattered work clothes, the Ford Explorer with fading paint, and the postdated rent check only reinforced that they were way out of our league. Ugh.

  In truth, this little spat over Flash’s name had brought up insecurities I’d been trying to squelch. The change in our location and scenery hadn’t changed the fact that I was coming up short on all fronts and that my failures kept bubbling over, no matter how hard I tried to keep a lid on them. The razor-thin edge of the will-we-or-won’t-we-make-it pursuit of our artistic dreams seemed to amplify my shortcomings. Being confronted with a gorgeous couple who seemed to have it all only made my flaws all the more obvious.

  But I couldn’t think about that now. I needed to paint a princess-themed nursery for a client, and I hadn’t quite figured out how I was going to get it done in the time I’d allotted. I rushed to sketch the design on the wall and quickly lost myself in the work.

  “Mom, did you forget to pick me up?” Grayson’s voice on my cell phone brought me scrambling down my ladder at the job site and hurrying to the truck in a fit of panic. How could it be 4:30 already? He’d been waiting an hour for me.

  “I’ll be right there, Gray. I’m so sorry! I forgot about the time.” How could I have been so thoughtless? It was Grayson’s first day of middle school; I’d vowed that on this day I would start doing a better job of staying organized, and I’d already failed.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I chided myself as I sped the seventy miles from the job site to his school. “I am so stupid!” I arrived an hour later to find him sitting in the darkened school office, a secretary keeping him company as the poor kid waited for his negligent mom to come. Happy first day of sixth grade, son. Mommy loves you. She just forgot about you.

  My failures as a mother stacked up relentlessly. I remembered how I used to have a nice dinner on the table at a decent time, and how I kept the house picked up and tended our children’s needs with focus and energy. These days, keeping our heads above water meant putting in long work hours. Loading ladders and equipment each day exhausted me, and my evening hours were spent planning and sketching upcoming projects.

  On the one hand, I enjoyed the work and loved the creativity, but I was a distracted parent, and one with a short temper, at best. I missed the simpler days, when my goals as a mother had been clear and I had the time to be intentional in my parenting. I hated pulling shirts from the bottom of the clothes hamper and fluffing them in the dryer with antistatic sheets, trying to pass them off as clean. This system fooled nobody. Chipping frozen ground beef in the frying pan while my hungry family gnawed on chips at 8:00 p.m. demoralized me. Bedtime devotions with the kids? Ha.

  “Inadequate.” I dug the word into my journal with my pen, tearing the pages with the force. My distractedness, my inability to complete a task, my failure to see the things that were important to my husband—it was a recurring theme in our marriage when things got tough.

  We are fortunate; our conflicts are few and far between. But when we have them, it seems they center on differences in priorities, and I take it hard. He’s the planner, while I work off of a hope and a prayer. He’s the one who measures to the centimeter, while I eyeball and guess. He needs things tidy, and I don’t see the mess. When you’re the “close-is-good-enough” partner to a “do-it-right-or-not-at-all” person, it’s easy to feel like the biggest failure-wife of all time. It wasn’t Tom’s fault I took things that way. . . . It was mine. I’d hear him make a small request for, say, remembering to buy toothpaste, and I’d naturally assume it meant I was completely inadequate and worthless.

  My focus got lost. I got lost. Yes, the Texas landscape was beautiful, but I couldn’t see it anymore. My to-do list overwhelmed me. Everything clamored for attention: The laundry needed sorting; Grayson needed help with a science project; our new client waited on a sketch; weeds overtook the flower beds; we were out of milk; the Explorer’s engine made knocking sounds; hockey practice started in an hour. . . . I imploded. I’d begin one task, only to be pulled by another, then another, and at the end of the day have nothing done.

  There were some mornings when I couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone wage war over my donkey’s name.

  Just then I heard Bridgette’s cheery greeting to Flash ring out yet again. I sighed. And as I peered through the curtain to see him eagerly trotting to the fence with his ears wobbling from side to side, something strange happened. I felt a whisper. Okay, maybe not even a whisper, but something. A nudge, a thought.

  A tickle on my skin.

  Snippets from a verse dropped into my head:

  I have called you by name; you are mine.

  The words caught me off guard. Where had I heard them before? I know I’ve read them somewhere. I reached for my Bible and flipped pages, finally finding them in Isaiah 43:1:

  But now, O Jacob, listen to the LORD who created you.

  O Israel, the one who formed you says,

  “Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed
you.

  I have called you by name; you are mine.”

  The letters leaped off the page.

  “You are mine.”

  Deep breath. Oh. I had not expected this. As much as I believed in a God who cared about me and could certainly speak to anyone, at any time, I wondered if this might be that “still small voice” that people talked about. Consumed by my little vortex of failure, I’d been doing more blaming than connecting with Him. I just kept muddling, struggling, failing, and repeating.

  But somehow, He was using a donkey to lead me to a simple truth.

  How apropos.

  Because I felt pretty much like a donkey’s hind end. I was no different from Flash. I had an identity crisis of my own going on. Somehow, in the busyness of the kids’ activities, work, cooking, paying the bills, and trying to juggle it all, I’d stopped paying attention to my spiritual life. Prayer had become little more than accusations and pleas for help, addressed to a God somewhere up there. Time spent listening for Him, or reading His Word, was nonexistent. Why bother? Focusing on myself, my problems, and my solutions, I had let the connection with my Maker go cold.

  I saw myself as the center of my own universe, utterly inadequate in everything. Dropping all the balls. A failure in my artistic venture. A terrible businesswoman. A mom who forgot to pick up her kid at school. Alone, even in the middle of a beautiful family. Lost, in the midst of a new country life. Always behind, forever floundering. Afraid of being discovered as a fraud. Who am I kidding? I’m nobody. I listened to the whispers that called into question my value—value that was based on my performance instead of the magnificent grace poured out on me from the heart of a loving heavenly Father.

  The One whose I am. The One who named me.

  I’d forgotten just who I belonged to, and that my Father had given me a name—in fact, many names—that expressed His love for me. In that moment, God reminded me that my value comes from my relationship with Him, and not my “success” as a mom, or as a wife, or as a friend, or as a businessperson.