Flash

by Rachel Anne Ridge

  When I finally arrived home, I turned off the engine and sat in the driveway for a moment. Flash was at the fence to greet me, sides heaving as he aired up for a loud bellow. Not now, Flash. Spare me. I sighed through puffed cheeks but got out of the car to see him anyway. The kids were waiting inside, but I needed a few moments to decompress—and hey, why not get blasted by a donkey foghorn while I was at it? I covered my ears in anticipation.

  Flash’s lips pulled back and his head came forward as he released the bray in an explosion of sound.

  HEE-haw, HEE-haw, HEE-haw!

  He subsided momentarily, then let forth again. HEE-haw, HEE-haw, HEE-haw!

  “Good to see you, too, buddy.” My shoulders were slumped in defeat, but sadly Flash is clueless when it comes to reading body language and paid no attention to my need to regroup.

  He looked expectantly at me, then pointedly at the green horse apples on the ground near my feet. I noticed he’d positioned himself strategically near the bois d’arc (pronounced “bo-dark”) tree just outside his fence. Most people call this kind of tree a hedgerow tree or horse apple tree because of its odd lime-green fruit, which look like oversized, pebbly tennis balls.

  They’re rock hard and worthless to humans, but horses and donkeys love them. Flash has perfected the art of eating one, which requires holding it against the ground with his mouth while biting off a hunk with his teeth. He then chews the sticky mouthful, with green slobber dribbling out, smacking his lips with relish.

  Ahem. Rachel, look at me. Yes. Now look at the ground right there. He cocked his head, and his eyes sent invisible arrows to the fruit. I could not miss his intent.

  Obediently, I picked up a horse apple and chucked it over the fence to him. It rolled to a stop near his front feet. His head lunged and he dug into it greedily, the juice squirting out as he bit down. I leaned against the tree and watched him chew the woody pulp with his eyes half-closed in delight. He polished it off in two more chomps and immediately implored me for more. A fresh one crashed to the ground with a thud, so I picked it up and held it just beyond him.

  “What? You want this, huh? Huh?”

  I couldn’t help but smile a little at Flash’s expression. His lips are so nimble, I swear he could pick a lock with them. He raised one side of his upper lip and flared his nostril, as if he knew I was teasing him. A swift nod of his head told me to get serious and hand it over.

  “Okay, okay. Here you go.” He took it from my hand and set it down on the ground with his teeth. Then, like the gentleman he could be, he brought his head up to say thank you. I rubbed the insides of his ears with my fingers, and he was only too happy to put off eating until the attention was over. I looked around at his barren pasture and marveled at how he managed to thrive with so little grass growing from the parched ground.

  It’s remarkable, really. Flash finds edible delicacies everywhere. He eats weeds that would insult horses, and he favors dry native grasses that even cows turn up their noses at. Made for the desert, the donkey is undaunted by drought—a natural browser who chooses leaves, bark, thistles, and brush when easy grazing isn’t available.

  I love watching Flash single out the specific plants he likes, no matter how small, and remove them from the surrounding growth with the skill of a surgeon. He selects blades of grass, bites them in half, and eats his favorite parts, like a connoisseur of vegetation.

  Flash finds particular delight in the leafy fronds of mesquite trees that grow in and around his pasture. Somehow he is able to avoid the gigantic thorns as he grasps a small branch with his teeth, like a Spanish flamenco dancer with a rose. Then he slides his mouth down to the end, stripping the leaves as he goes along. You’d think he was popping caviar into his mouth, he enjoys it so much . . . with nary a scratch ending up on those big lips.

  Between his daily to-do list, his appetite for weeds and leaves, and the servings of hay in the barn, Flash was living like a king. Well, I was glad somebody was around here. What a character.

  With my mood lifting, I gave Flash a farewell kiss on the nose and joined the family inside. Lauren and Robert; Meghan and her new fiancé, Nathan; and Grayson all cheered as I walked in the door.

  “Now the party can start!” They knew how to make me feel good, and I shed the last vestige of bitterness over my day as they enveloped me in warm greeting.

  The morning coffee gave off its life-sustaining aroma as I puttered around the kitchen in my robe. Pizza boxes littered the counter, along with the dishes that had been left in disarray the night before. None of us had wanted to miss the movie by taking time to clean up. I’d enjoy a cup of coffee before the crew awoke and before embarking on the cleaning effort.

  My cell phone interrupted the quiet moment. So early on a Saturday? It was Bridgette, calling from her family home in Louisiana, and something in her voice sounded off.

  “What’s going on, Bridgette?” I asked, and I heard her take a shaky breath on the other end.

  “Rachel,” she said. And I knew instantly that it couldn’t be good.

  “I found a lump.”

  The words no one ever wants to hear.

  The words no one ever wants to say.

  A lump? Please, God, no.

  My heart stopped, and I reached for the kitchen counter as my knees buckled. “No. No! What? How? Bridgette, are you okay?”

  “They are doing a biopsy, and hopefully it’s nothing. It’s probably nothing, right? But I can’t tell Mama yet because of her heart condition, and I don’t want to tell my kids until after I know something for sure.” Her voice wobbled. “I just . . . I just wanted you to know. You’re the only one outside my family who I can call right now. I need you to know what’s happening. I need you to pray.”

  Tears of fear and anger. Not Bridgette. Not my steel magnolia. Not this woman who had given Flash a different name, who shared her perennials and forged an unexpected friendship with me, the girl who didn’t think she needed a friend. I refused to believe it.

  But the cancer was real. And it was big. And there were surgeries, and chemo and radiation. She was sick, and her tiny figure got even tinier as she lost weight during her treatment. Her hair came out in clumps until she shaved it all off.

  And through all of it, Bridgette was the one who was strong. Tom and I brought chicken dinners and flowers and made cards, but it felt so meager in the face of something this enormous. Mostly, we prayed. Please, dear Jesus. Heal her. Do a miracle. We wanted an instant zap. A beam from heaven to take away the cancer in one big blaze of glory.

  But it seemed that her miracle would unfold in the long, slow journey of modern science and hospital waiting rooms. Her recovery would eventually be found in the care of excellent doctors and nurses and drug therapies. In the end, we didn’t care what form the healing took, and we felt grateful for each step toward remission.

  In the middle of her months of treatment, we started a new design project together. I watched as something like light emanated from Bridgette in a way I’d never seen before. There she stood, bald as a billiard, conducting meetings and drawing up plans and executing her designs. She’d clutch a chair during a hot flash, peel off a layer of clothing, wipe her neck, and just keep going.

  She surrounded herself with family and friends and drank in every Scripture about healing. She danced with Steve on the job-site floor and wore bright, gigantic earrings and colorful scarves. It was like she squeezed all the goodness of life into each precious day. She had never been more beautiful or radiant. And I loved her all the more.

  “Rachel, you cannot believe how liberating it is to be completely bald,” Bridgette told me one day. The wigs that she’d so carefully selected, and was so certain she’d wear, made her scalp itch. She said she felt fake when she wore them. So she decided to meet the world sans hair. “I never realized how good it would feel to let go of all that pride that was so wrapped up in my hair, and to just say, ‘This is who I am.’” She threw her arms wide and raised her face skyward, open and free, th
ankful for life, and for breathing and loving. She grabbed my hand and whispered, “God is so good.”

  Bridgette, like Flash, found a way to thrive in the midst of her drought. It put my problems into a new perspective. Both Bridgette and Flash seemed to have discovered the secret to living in abundance, despite the odds against them. Watching them, I knew I had some soul-searching to do.

  “Stand where fruit is falling,” I wrote in my journal that summer. I didn’t know why that phrase caught in my mind, but it did. Those worthless horse apples that littered the yard—they became treasures to a donkey stuck in a barren landscape. And the weeds and leaves that everyone else overlooked—they were sustenance and life to him. Somewhere, somehow, in the middle of drought, abundance could be found. And I had nearly missed it, because I was looking for easy grazing.

  I thought back to the yellow Jag client, the lady who had everything money could buy. Now that I was past feeling like a feverish, greasy squirrel and had invested in some waterproof mascara, I could think a little more clearly about that whole incident.

  From the moment I’d driven through the imposing gate and pulled up next to the fleet of luxury vehicles, I’d focused on all the shiny material things in front of me. I was occupied with thoughts of orthodontia, car repair, and the cost of hamburger. It’s ground meat, people. Not steak! I certainly wasn’t living in abundance, but I suddenly realized that the wife I so envied, who felt the need to jab the less fortunates at every turn, wasn’t either.

  Had I glimpsed disappointment in her face—there, amid her beautiful surroundings? I wondered if the stepchildren she mentioned resented her, and if she wished her husband were home more often. She filled her days with shopping, rearranging, lunches, and parties, but beneath it all, there was fear that everything would disappear with the onset of age and wrinkles.

  She was grasping at a lifestyle that should have brought peace, but instead it only heightened her insecurity. People who have enough never need to point out everyone else’s lack. I could see that now. Abundant living must be about something deeper and more lasting than a bank account.

  I headed to the pasture with my notebook and Bible, this time wanting to get to the heart of this idea of living in abundance. The dried mesquite pods that swayed in the hot wind sounded like Mexican maracas as I dusted off the green camp chair near the fire pit.

  Right on cue, Flash approached and nuzzled my shoulder, then lingered nearby to keep me company. He delved into the small stand of trees and found a branch, shoulder height, that he could rub against. Working clockwise around his frame, he scratched every inch at that level before moving on to a taller branch for his head and neck. I guess this time he actually read my body language that said “I’m deep in thought” and figured he’d take care of his own needs.

  I felt like the person in Proverbs 6:6 who was told, “Go to the ant . . . consider its ways and be wise” (NIV). Only I was going to the donkey, the ancient animal who happened to show up in many significant stories recorded in the Bible, as well as in the lives of this average family in Texas. Was it coincidence? I began to think maybe it wasn’t. So how was it that Flash always had enough? What was his secret of abundance?

  My eyes found Habakkuk 3:17-19, which describes a desolate scene:

  Even though the fig trees have no blossoms,

  and there are no grapes on the vines;

  even though the olive crop fails,

  and the fields lie empty and barren;

  even though the flocks die in the fields,

  and the cattle barns are empty . . .

  Wow, now that’s drought. Sounds familiar.

  Yet I will rejoice in the LORD! [emphasis added]

  I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!

  The Sovereign LORD is my strength!

  He makes me as surefooted as a deer,

  able to tread upon the heights.

  Clearly, these verses are saying that joy and strength are found in God. Even when there is drought. Despite all the odds against them. In the face of despair. In the midst of your troubles. Okay, I could see that. But how, exactly, does it work?

  A hot breath of wind curled the pages, and I smoothed them back down. Flash abandoned the self-serve scratching post and stepped close to my chair to sniff the book in my lap. I knew he couldn’t read, but he pretended to anyway, his lips moving ever so slightly as if forming the words. I nudged him and asked, “What do you think, Flash? Is there an answer in there?”

  He flapped his ears as if to say, “See for yourself. I can’t do your work for you.” At this, I pushed his head out of the way to look for a clue—and found it next to the “yet.”

  “Yet I will” told me what I needed to know.

  I must choose it.

  I must choose to rejoice.

  I must choose gratitude.

  I must choose to look to Him for strength.

  I must choose to find fruit.

  It is a matter of my will.

  Ah.

  This whole abundance thing starts with a decision to see the goodness around you and give thanks in your circumstances. First Thessalonians 5:18 says, “No matter what happens, always be thankful, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus” (TLB). It is in being fully present and fully engaged in the act of gratitude that joy can be released in and around you. Intentional thanksgiving is when you humbly receive what God graciously gives you and offer praise to Him in return, creating a grand circle of abundance.

  Flash’s to-do list is a simplified form of abundant living. He awakens each morning under the cedars and enjoys the gift of a new day. He moseys to the barn to see what has been provided. He looks for sustenance in unexpected places. He eats hardship for breakfast. He takes the things that are disdained by others and relishes the nutrients he finds. He asks for help from his community. He strategically positions himself for fruit. He lives in the moment. He poops conscientiously. He is grateful for simple pleasures. He chooses contentment.

  And none of it is dependent on material wealth, or even health, as Bridgette showed me. She wrestled with the fear that came with the cancer, the weakness that followed the surgeries, and the exhaustion that radiation brought. And through it all, she found a way to see God’s love in every step of her journey. She chose to treasure the gifts that accompanied the pain: the gifts of friendship, of family, and of daily graces. She even treasured the gift of freedom that came with her loss of hair. If that’s not living in abundance, I don’t know what is.

  “Stand where fruit is falling” means this: “Position yourself where the good stuff is.” Find the goodness and get there. Just get there. Because the goodness can only come when you’re standing in the right place. . . .

  I was starting to see the picture now. All of it is a decision. A choice to savor the grace of each moment and to experience abundance in the very act of gratitude.

  I smiled as I thought of Tom taking my hand in the Home Depot parking lot one Tuesday afternoon and twirling me around and into a dip, for no reason at all. I thought of the kids and the pizza boxes, and piling in on the couch to watch movies and enjoy popcorn and milk shakes together. The squeaky front end of the Explorer announcing my conspicuous arrival at the yellow Jag mansion.

  The honor of bringing baked chicken to Bridgette, who beat her cancer in high style, with her big earrings and irrepressible joy. The laundry and the bills and the dailiness of living, all mingled with the sparkles of evening fireflies, the morning coffee, and the camp chairs set around a fire pit, in a pasture where a donkey lingers.

  You can stand where fruit is falling. On a hot August day, in the middle of drought, there is fruit that looks like worthless, hard-as-rock oddities of nature.

  But it is so. Much. More. Than that.

  It is the “yet” that sets joy atop a mountain of trials, and plants a flag of triumph there for all to see. It is the “even though” that sees past the empty stalls and dried-up fields and vines with no grapes, and sets it
s sights on a Savior who is always enough. It is the arrow that points to a God whose lavish grace gives and sustains life, and makes our feet dance upon the heights. It is the “I will” that chooses daily gratitude, and a heart that rejoices in His loving-kindness.

  It is the secret of abundance.

  Stand where fruit is falling.

  The secret of abundance is in choosing gratitude.

  Your donkey is being a pest,” Tom announced as he wiped his boots on the mat outside the kitchen door. “I can’t get anything done with him looking over my shoulder so closely.”

  He stepped inside to wash up for lunch, frustrated that he hadn’t gotten more accomplished on his barn remodeling project. He was converting two stalls into an enclosed workspace, and the morning’s goal of laying a subfloor had not ended well.

  I finished making a ham sandwich and opened a bag of chips. It hadn’t escaped my notice that Tom had referred to Flash as “your donkey.” Uh-huh. It’s just like when one parent tries to shift the responsibility for discipline to the other parent. “Your son needs a good talking to.” Or “Your daughter exceeded her texting limit.” It’s a subtle way of saying, “It’s your turn to take care of this.”

  So, like every good parent, I got defensive.

  “He’s just curious, that’s all,” I said, excusing Flash’s behavior. “You know he has to see everything that’s going on. Plus, you’re his leader, and he wants to be near you, so we should cut him some slack.”

  Don’t get me wrong; I love that donkey to death, but I’m not taking the fall for any mischief he pulls in the barn.

  “Well, he’s no help whatsoever,” Tom replied. “He hasn’t done a lick of work since he’s been here, and now he’s keeping me from doing mine.” His expression was one of mock disgust, and I detected indulgence in his voice. Big softy.

  The fact is, Flash’s personal work ethic does leave something to be desired. As impressive as his pasture trails are, they are about the only thing he’s actually worked at since he arrived on our doorstep. But even that job is suspect, because we know there is food, or water, or a roll in the dust at the end of each of his paths. Not exactly what you’d call an altruistic effort.