BLESSING OR CURSE

Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all because he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before--such was its splendor, majesty, and strength. People offered fabulous prices for the horse but the old man always refused. "This horse is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?" The man was poor and the temptation great but he never sold the horse.

One morning, the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. "You old fool," they scoffed, "we told you someone would steal your fine horse." You are poor, it would have been better to have sold him and kept the money. Now the horse is gone and you have been cursed with misfortune." The old man responded, "Don't speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgement. If I've been cursed or not, how can you know?" The people contested, "Don't make us to be fools! Great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse." The man spoke again, "All I know is that the horse is gone. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I cannot say. All we see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?"

After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn't been stolen but had run into the forest. He brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man. "Old man, you were right. What we thought was a curse was a blessing." The old man responded, "Again you go too far. Say only that the horse has returned with a dozen horses with him. How do you know if this is a blessing? Do not judge, you see only a fragment. You read only one page of a book and can you now judge the whole book on that one page? Can you understand it? Life is so vast, no one knows when all there is is a fragment. I am content with what I know and not anxious about what I do not."

"Maybe the old man is right," the villagers thought. So they said little. But down deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. The twelve wild horses could be trained and sold for a profit. A profit the old man desperately needed.

The old man had only one child, a son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days he fell from one of them and broke both his legs. Once again the villagers gathered around. "You were right," they said. "The horses were not a blessing but a curse. Your only son has broken his legs and now cannot help you in your old age. You will be poorer than ever." The old man spoke again, "You people cannot stop judging and go too far. Say only that my son has broken his legs. Who knows if that is a blessing or a curse? Life comes in fragments. Nobody knows."

It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war. All the young men of the village were called to fight the war. Only the son of the old man was excluded because of his broken legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the man, crying out for their sons who had been taken. There was little chance they would see them again. "You were right old man," they wept. "Your son's accident was a blessing for because of his broken legs he is with you now. Our sons are gone forever."

The old man once again spoke, "It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only that your sons have gone to war and mine did not. No one is wise enough to know if this is a blessing or a curse. Only God knows."

This parable, from Max Lucado's Eye of the Storm, is so appropriate in my life these days. When I "grow up" I hope to finally and fully grasp this one thing: I am small; God is big. To hold this tightly when something is a blessing; even tighter when it looks like a curse. For I do not know. Life is so many broken, misshapen shards that God is fashioning into a glittering mosaic.

Chance has not been performing well the last two months. And not for lack of trying on his part. Though not distressed when he is at rest in the paddock, he is plagued with a mysterious cough and what appears to be a blockage of sorts in his throat. He can only perform light work and often cranes his neck and does a series of jaw gyrations as if trying to dislodge something. He has an appointment with the vet for a full exam and internal scope. This visit won't be cheap (What am I talking about--they never are!!). I alternate between fear and resignation as my horse girlfriends and I laugh about the "free" horse. Yeah, free comes with a ball and chain--his name is Murphy. Of course all horses are expensive. I know 10,000 dollar animals that can hardly be kept sound. But I can't help worrying about a possible tumor/cancer/outrageously expensive terminal illness. What will we do with an unusable proud little pinto who is deeply loved by a ten-year-old girl? My mind jumps ahead, manipulating circumstances that haven't come to pass. I am cursed.

The above parable came to mind on Tuesday of this week as I lounged in the sun and watched Haley guide my gelding Tango through his gaits at her lesson. He is her horse while Chance is down. The horse I've said isn't suitable for a child. Though highly trained and well seasoned, I've feared Tango's knack for finding trouble and having a laugh (at your expense) would frustrate Haley. I felt protective of them both. But now they are having fun. He is responsive and obedient; she is relaxed and smiling. She wants to take him to a fun show this weekend.

Could all this somehow be....A blessing??

Perhaps I should stick to the facts I know and be content. Because I do not know; I do not see the complete picture in the shards of circumstance.

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.--1 cor. 13:12

AN ANNOINTING

Ever notice how experiences that once seemed gross or unpleasant can turn out to be beautiful? Kissing a boy comes to mind (they used to be cooty carriers) and giving birth.

A few weeks ago my pastor was teaching about Jesus healing the man blind from birth (John chapter 9). Whether his eyes were freaky white orbs--think supernatural horror movie, or shriveled like raisins we don't know for sure. Maybe they looked normal. According to scripture the man didn't ask Jesus for healing. Jesus simply notices his dilemma, approaches and....puts mud in his eyes. To be technical, he spits in some dirt. Think about that for a minute: "Hey, sorry about your blindness. Let me spit in the dirt and put mud on your eyes." Yeah, I know he was the Son of God but even divine spit has an eew factor. I like to dig into the specifics in scripture. Not only that, you can't touch a much more vulnerable place then an eyeball. I have a hard time putting mascara on, much less allowing a stranger to put something yucky there. It amazes me that this man (who can't see Jesus at all remember), stands still for this scenario. He had some kind of trust. I'd probably be swinging at the Lord.

Sitting in church I zoned out a tad and flipped to some of the other miracles Jesus performed. Really, this was a guy who could work a miracle with simply a word--or a thought! Like turning water into wine. On these recent hot days I wish I could do something similar. Turn a glass of tap water into yummy Mikes Hard Lemonade, for instance. Then there's the woman who sees Jesus in a large crowd. She has this major medical issue but doesn't want to make a scene. She thinks, "If only I could just touch his clothes I'll be healed." I so relate to this woman. I hate being put on the spot. If I'm suffering in a public situation forget asking for help. I'll just die in the corner quietly, thank you. Jesus would have put his hands on this woman, anointed her with his joy, his healing, in a moment. But she's shy and her problem is embarrassing. Despite her reticence, her faith makes her well and while Jesus publicly makes known his awareness of her needs, he doesn't touch her. The healing is quiet and clean.

So, why the mud for the blind guy? I really don't know. There was nothing magical about that middle eastern dirt. All I can figure is the physical act of anointing did something for that man. Jesus loves to be a hands on kind of guy. The blind man must have had a heart that yearned for a personal touch.

The act of being anointed suggests special favor. It is an act of love and recognition. In the Bible being anointed was closely linked with holiness. The substance of choice was a fragrant oil but perfume and mud were also used. The specific substance wasn't as important as the act itself. So, what does this have to do with horses (you knew I'd eventually get around to it)? Well, these days I have my own nightly "anointing" ritual with Eli.

It started back in May when I noticed he was rubbing his mane and tail off. Literally. Eli is a beautiful animal. To see his chestnut locks frizzled into oblivion killed me. An Arabian with a mohawk? I don't think so. The source of Eli's skin problem is elusive and complicated. Like all individuals, he isn't perfect. Reactive, sensitive skin seems to be his "thorn in the flesh." I began by augmenting his diet. The first step in Operation Don't-Hate-Me-Because-I'm-Beautiful mane hair fit for a Revlon commercial. The flax seed helps with growth, condition, and essential omega 3s. I added garlic to keep the bugs away. They find Eli's smell particularly sweet and drive him crazy. Both dietary things helped but Eli kept itching. A close up inspection of the crest of his neck and tail head revealed skin that was rough, irritated, and excessively dry and flaky--Something Yucky (the technical term). I tried a couple different products before finding my miracle (drum roll please).....Shapley's MTG.http://www.shapleys.com/ Oh my gosh, this product actually works. Owners of sensitive skinned horses rejoice. The active ingredient? Sulfur. Yep, sulfur in oil. It's messy, its smelly, but it stops itching.

At night, usually while Eli is eating, I schlep out my oily sulfur and another great oil, Calm Coathttp://www.calmcoat.com/, for his daily anointing ritual. Calm Coat is a much better smelling concoction of eucalyptus, lavender, and tea tree oil. I use it on his belly to soothe any irritation from noseeums--a major problem in this part of the country--or other insect bites.

As I've written before, Eli is a horse intensely careful about his personal space. When I got him he wouldn't eat if I stood next to him. He also got uncomfortable if I entered his stall when he was closed inside. Basically, he was always worried about how his body might be harmed if I got too close. An introvert, Eli doesn't want anybody making a scene. It's taken several months to get him to the point where he enjoys my attention up close. I can now stand by his side, arm over his barrel, and he doesn't flinch. He even gives me horse hugs now and then when I rub his neck and chest--his big arched neck turned my way as he simply hangs his head by my side.

When I first started my oiling up routine though he was less then thrilled. I'd have to halter him so he didn't walk away--Oh boy, here she comes again with that smelly goo. I had to tell him, "You know, not every stallion has a woman anointing them with oil every night for their personal comfort and beauty. You should be so lucky!" He wasn't impressed. But over the last couple of months I dare to say that he often seems to enjoy it. I no longer have to halter him. One night he even stopped eating altogether and simply hung his head in pleasure. As I stood by his neck, my hands rubbing MTG into the roots of his mane, he gave me a nice horsey hug. I began rubbing the soft place between his jaw bones. My fingers found a couple bumpy mosquito bites. As I rubbed Eli bobbed his head, happy as could be I was itching this most vulnerable place he was unable to do anything about. I put a dab of Calm Coat on my sooty looking fingers and rubbed the soothing oil on the bites. He bobbed even more enthusiastically--yeah, put some there! Interesting that it is a problem that gives me the opportunity to bond with this horse in a way he needs. He's learning to trust even if he doesn't understand what I'm doing to him, even if I'm touching a sensitive place.

I'd like to be more that way--"Lord, please touch me where I need healing; oil, mud, I'll take whatever you've got."

WINDOW TO THE SOUL

A strange stillness dwells in my eye,

a composure that appears to regard the world

from a measured distance.

It is the gaze from the depths of a desert dream.

(Horses of the Sun--Robert Vavra)

A SURE THING

Horses have always been a status symbol. Even today, with cars as "beast of burden," the horse you ride says something about you. Whether its fair, nice or deserved isn't the point. It just is.

A friend and I were recently playing the always entertaining game of What If Money Was No Object. This while watching our daughters take a riding lesson. What kind of horse would we buy for our girls? My friend thought, without doubt, that she would purchase a finely bred, professionally trained, guaranteed-to-win-the-ribbons horse that riders of lesser animals love to hate. As I watched my daughter struggle to perfect the choppy lope of our rescued-mediocre-conformation-does-not-play-well-with-others little Chance I hesitated. Part of me enthusiastically agrees. Wouldn't it be nice to simply show up to play days and 4H fair and collect prizes? Sign me up for that. Horses, after all, are not created equal. Spend a few minutes with a highly talented, well-bred equine athlete and you suddenly realize the huge gap between the have and have nots when it comes to horse flesh. What do I want for my daughter? To have, of course.

At a time like this I can't help reflecting on my childhood and the Motley Crew of "blue collar" (okay, red neck) horses we amassed over time. The horses that, despite their flaws, ignited my passion and honed my skills as a horse woman. My parents didn't have the option of shopping on Dreamhorse.com, happily clicking the skills they were searching for in a mount for their young daughter. With three other siblings there were more important considerations--food, shelter, and clothing, for instance. Our criteria was simple--four-legged horse.

My first mount was a contrary Shetland of unknown origins (see, Ode to a Shetland Pony) who enjoyed scraping me off on trees, among other things. When I survived Sally, I graduated to the neighbors green broke Arabian gelding who had sat in a pasture for two years after being broke to saddle. Oh goody. I must have been about ten when Sunny came to live with us. My first ride on him is made especially vivid because of the stomach turning mix of abject fear and total excitement that marinated my insides as I perched on his prancing back. Equally vivid is the memory of watching my father--a man with no affinity for horseback riding--attempting to break Sunny of his habit of bolting not long afterward. Good times.

After a stint at "the trainers," lessons, and a year of bonding, Sunny turned into my very best friend. We went on to show at local fun shows and 4H, eventually qualifying for the state fair team two years in a row. You'd have thought I made the Olympics. Looking back, I can see that Sunny wasn't really all that special. He was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill kind of guy whose greatest accomplishment was helping a little girl grow up.

Other members of our colorful crew in those days included these gems--Tigerbell and Alla. Tigerbell was a 25-year-old half Arab, 1/4 Appy, 1/4 Tennessee Walking Horse (whose idea was that?). She was a nobby, temperamental gal with a rubbed off mane, and creaky joints. With a wicked old lady backbone and withers, you wouldn't dare ride her bareback. A freebie, Alla was a leopard Appy with a hammer head, sway back, and pigeon toes. Her neck seemed to come straight out of an especially straight shoulder. Her trot could shake the teeth right out of your head. I'm not sure why we named her Alla, only that we couldn't bear to add the "h" at the end. This out of respect, I'm sure, for a religion whose sacred book states that Allah, "took a handful of the southwind and created the horse." Our Alla was more on the earthy side.

Curiously, the "top dollar" Thoroughbred, bought for me as a teenager for the astronomical sum of $2,500 (a huge sacrifice on my parents part), never found a place in my heart. I rode her for barely two years before she was sold. Guess I'm a blue collar kinda horse gal.

But lets be real. Memory has a way of turning things rosy-colored. In the here and now, money no object, would I purchase a fancier horse for my precious 10-year-old or continue with an animal whose talents are definitely mediocre? I cannot tell a lie.

A horse provides much more for a child than simply putting them, "in the ribbons." And the right horse just may be the blue collar animal. I can't help thinking of two girls I knew in 4H who rode geldings named Nacho and Rocky. Now, it doesn't take a genius to figure out which horse was prettier and more talented. Let that be a lesson to you breeders--names matter. Rocky had a gleaming bay coat that rippled with muscle. He had the perfect Quarter Horse "dopey lope" that won all the pleasure classes and was grand champion in trail. His owner, whose name I have long forgotten (see post, Horse Names), was the girl I loved to hate at 4H fair time. I don't know for sure but I'd be willing to bet money that Rocky's training was done by someone else (not that it matters....I've since matured and am so over that). Nacho, on the other hand, was furry and fat. Utterly forgettable. His neck was nearly as wide as it was long. Let's just say "flexing at the poll" was not something this horse would be doing. In his lifetime. But I don't remember Nacho's owner enjoying her horse any less than Rocky's. They both rode, won (or not), loved their geldings and grew up with sweet memories of life on horseback. That is a gift.

So what might Chance be doing for Haley in the here and now? Of course I've thought about it, as I consider the "perfect" animal on Dreamhorse and the fact that I can use Pay Pal. There are two things Haley is learning and it has nothing to do with competition. First, there is a true friendship building between her and Chance. In the same way of human relationships, not all partnerships--however fancy the horse--become a friendship. Believe me, I know. Chance will leave a field of grass to meet Haley at the gate and soaks up her love like the sun. Second, Haley's character has been honed because of this particular animal. She's learning that soft hands and a deserved rest go farthest in training and that green horses will usually dump the rider who spurs them in a fit of temper. She's learned that victory at a show is a happy, calm horse and rider, not a blue ribbon.

I won't deny I'd love for Haley to win the blues, be rodeo queen, go to the Olympics, be "the best." It is unlikely the abilities of her current mount will take her there (if I win the Lotto find me surfing Dreamhorse). But Chance, with all his flaws, may turn out to be the "sure thing" that helps a little girl grow up. That is enough.

HEART: AN ELUSIVE QUALITY

I would suggest that not since the days of Sea Biscuit has Thoroughbred racing been so inspirational. First there was the stunning victory of 50-1 long shot, Mine That Bird, in the Kentucky Derby. This horse's improbable success--he was a mediocre performer--was largely made possible by the intuitive talents of jockey Calvin Borel who guided him to the 6 and 3/4 length win on May second--largest in Derby history since Assault in 1946. At a time when the economy is plunging and moral is sagging, the sport of kings provides inspiring entertainment. Lately I'm wishing for a race track closer to home.

There was no doubt that "The Bird" would make a bid for the Triple crown by running next in the Preakness. Surely nothing would stop Calvin Borel from climbing aboard the bay gelding and collecting another jewel in the crown (not to mention a whole lot of cash).

Wrong.

Borel would become the first rider to leave a Derby champion at the Preakness. In what was called an "unprecedented step," he chose to ride Rachel Alexandra, a horse he calls, "The greatest racehorse I've been on in my life." A filly? Those unfamiliar with racing may not realize the less than favored status fillies get saddled with (pun intended). Colts are overwhelmingly favored for racing, testosterone apparently giving them an edge over most fillies. And the Preakness--at 13/16 mile--is the ultimate challenge. Only three fillies have attempted the Preakness since 1939. Borel knew what he was doing. Last weekend Rachel Alexandra became the first filly in 85 years to win the Preakness. Mine That Bird finished second. Right now I'm singing: R-E-S-P-E-C-T--Can you hear it?? Here's to Girl Power.

My favorite quote from Borel regarding the filly he loves (he rode her to a 201/2 length finish in the Kentucky Oaks-a race for fillies-the day before the Derby) is this: "When you look into her eyes its unbelievable. You win."

What does an 8th grade drop out who can barely read and write know about winning? A lot. He knows that what sits at the core of a winning spirit is something nobody can give, or takeaway from you--Heart. Combine this with a willingness to work and success will come. Borel's skill at recognizing heart in a racehorse must come as a result of this quality in his own life. It has moved him from three decades toiling in obscurity to the highest echelons of his sport. Heart is what made it possible for him to keep riding after a horrific accident as a young jockey; heart is also what motivated a "lesser" choice in mounts for a high stakes race--a choice that seemed largely based on pure love of a horse.

But don't forget the work. Only a stellar work ethic prompts a jockey to wake up early to visit his horses so he can be in tune to their nuances. Work ethic prompted Borel to return to Churchill Downs the day after his victory to ride horses of much lesser ability rather than bask in the glory of his six-figure win. At age 42, this winner of over 4,000 races still mucks stalls for his trainer brother, Cecil.

An "over night success?" Hardly. Calvin Borel has more than earned his place in the spotlight.

HORSE NAMES AND THE SPORT OF KINGS

There seems to be no end to the things people collect.--antique farm tools, chopsticks, 50's lunch boxes, milk glass(always a favorite), Mickey Mouse memorabilia, the list goes on. In lieu of having a really interesting collection (say, umbrellas or rhinestone broaches or velvet pictures of Elvis) I collect horse names. Not officially, mentally. They stick in my brain like tacky magnets or running text on an electric sign, refusing to disappear into oblivion as other more important information does on a daily basis. My drivers license number, for instance. Birthdays, wedding days, names of people I do know, appointments, all fodder for my mental Black Hole. But a horse's name? Won't be forgetting that. Yes, I know I'm sick. The first step is admitting I have a problem.

With the recent running of the 135th Kentucky Derby, I had the chance to indulge my love of horse names. What could be more interesting than the names and cooresponding stories attached to Thoroughbred race horses? Elvis has nothing on the dreams, despair, blood, sweat and tears of the sport of kings. And naming a race horse isn't simple. The name is a wish, a prediction, an anouncement, or even a joke. It may stick in history, or inside somebody's head,(like mine) for eternity. If you're lucky. The horse's name says alot about the owner. How about the very unsubtle, I Want Revenge, or more wishful, Hold Me Back. A lighthearted, Chocolate Candy, suggests an owner with a sweet tooth and then there's the simple, get-to-point name of, Run. The filly Regret forever recorded her owners disappointment that she hadn't been born a colt (colts being favored for racing). I think the horse deserved a name change when she became the first filly to win the Kentucky Derby.

A name is a stab at immortality, the immortal horses that have gone before reading like labels in an exclusive clothing store (gotta get me that brand)--Northern Dancer, Eclipse, Aristides (first Derby winner), Storm Cat, Sea Biscuit, Secretariet, Bold Ruler, Barbaro. The list goes on. Not simply monikers but titles of a story--somebody's, somewhere. The names suggest attributes shared equally between equines and their caretakers--hope, heart, tenacity.

Breeding the Thoroughbred is as much of a science as man can muster. Imperfect but imperative. For lineage buffs(and other freaks of nature), I suggest the book, Stud: Adventures in Breeding, by Kevin Conley. Fascinating look into the Thoroughbred race horse. This years Kentucky Derby winner, Mine That Bird, wasn't conceived by accident. By Birdstone and out of Mining My Own, Mine That Bird did exactly what his father did, upset everyone's best predictions (Birdstone foiled Smarty Jones's bid for the Triple Crown). Many betters at The Downs were crying into their Mint Juleps Saturday when the bay gelding confounded the experts, coming from behind and winning in a spectacular burst of speed. I love when horses do that. But then I didn't have any money on the race. Bravo to the brave souls who bucked the crowds and put their money on the 50-1 longshot. I'm also happy for the horse who, like other long shots before him, decided Saturday was his day.

Mine That Bird reminds me of two other phenominal racehorse geldings whose names, and the stories behind them, are noteworthy. John Henry and Funny Cide. Funny Cide, by Distorted Humor, won both the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness. Owned by a circle of middle class friends who never expected to win with the horse they love, Funny Cide has a bit of a Cinderella story. It is detailed in Chicken Soup for the Horselovers Soul, II. But John Henry has to be my all time favorite. Talk about rags to riches, nothing horse becomes a celebrity. John Henry's breeding has been called, "phebian." This means middle or lower class. To be blunt, his owners couldn't afford Nordstrom and settled for JC Penny. Bought as a yearling for $1,100, the horse was named after the folk hero, John Henry, described as a "steel drivin' man." John Henry, the horse, also had a fondness for steel. He enjoyed ripping his steel feed containers off the wall and stomping them flat. With lack of breeding, an ornery spirit, and noteworthy conformation defects, John Henry was gelded, his "label" neatly ripped off and disposed of. This decision certainly resulted in the owner kicking himself black and blue. For the rest of his life. The horse went on to become the richest gelding of any breed in history. Racing until an unheard of age of 9, John Henry won two horse of the year titles and became the first racehorse to surpass 4 million in career earnings. Not bad for an off brand.

I visited Churchill Downs in May of 2007, just a few days before the 133rd Derby. I will never forget it. It was early, before the museum opened, so I followed a few others to the track to watch what was left of warmups. It was chilly but the sun shone brightly, working hard to burn off the early morning mist still clinging to the track. Grounds keepers were quietly hard at work to mulch and prepare the flower beds for the upcoming crowds. What struck me was the almost reverant quiet trackside. As if nobody wanted to disturb a sort of holy effort being exerted--like the hush before athletic events at the Olympics. Then I heard pounding hooves breaking through the fog. Two horses breezed their way around. They ran easily, joyfully. Because it felt good, because that is what God created them to do. I felt my throat tighten. Tears stung my eyes. Why? It was beautiful. That is all. For an instant I experienced the dream, the emotion, the tremendous heart that beats behind the sport of kings.

CROSSING RIVERS

A certain Spanish proverb warns that, "He who would ride a horse must learn to fall." I've learned to fall, thank you very much. In my younger years this included being bucked off, scraped off, knocked off, and hitting dirt when my horse ran off. My base of experience in off seems wide enough. In the last 15 or so years I've avoided the inevitable. Until last week.

Looking back, this episode may have been avoided if I hadn't attempted a training short cut. I say may because I'll never know for sure. Why cry over spilled milk, or spilled bodies?

Perhaps three weeks ago we put a running martingale on Chance. This piece of equipment is meant to prevent a horse from throwing his head up and avoiding the bit. Reins are threaded through two rings which converge in a fork and are anchored at the girth. There is no pressure on the horses mouth unless they throw their nose in the air. Then the martingale engages. Through leverage the horses head is held down. I've never been a fan of these sorts of tools. The old fashioned way of teaching a horse, through repetition, to yield and soften his face is always best. But Haley is small. I figured some advantage was an order.

At first Chance tolerated the new situation. Then he bucked off a friend's son. He reared, kicked out and dumped the rider. This was new behavior for him. The next day, with me on board, he tried a similar maneuver when the martingale was engaged and I toppled off (Can I just say that my butt was forced into a youth saddle and I had no stirrups--trying to save my pride a tad). It appeared, to me, that the action of the martingale triggered the same response--panic--that makes Chance sometimes pull when tied. An old demon we are still trying to exorcise. After exiting the saddle I removed the device. Permanently. For Chance, less appears to be more.

Haley was understandably upset. Not only had a spring trail ride together been derailed, Chance's behavior was unsettling. What was going on here and were we missing something?

Later on I examined my bruised body (minor) and faith (major). I suddenly felt very fragile and it had nothing to do with the fresh realization I can be injured on horseback. Was I using poor judgement? Had I wanted a happy ending for this horse so badly that I was willing to risk my daughter's safety? So many signs along the way pointed to Chance being a gift to me and Haley. Things it seemed only God could have arranged. We'd all come so far. But maybe not far enough.

I discussed the situation with my husband. Perhaps it was time to make some changes. Sell Chance and get something that will take a whole lot less effort. At this point a horse with one foot in the grave looks good. No faith required just a "sure thing." All it took was a thought of selling this horse and my throat got tight, tears a threatening storm behind my eyes. What is wrong with me? I've sold several horses in the last ten years with not so much as a tear. They all touch me, and teach me, but I'm practical about such matters. One can't keep every horse that sets a hoof in the barn. I've sold more charming horses than a certain pinto aptly nicknamed "Jack." (Nicholson. Think As Good As It Gets) Chance is not special to me because of some outward quality. It's what he represents--the beautiful and often fragile journey of faith.

Though I've felt strongly, from the beginning, that I was meant to have this horse, I've lost track of how many times I've given up on him. The first time came after only two weeks on my property. After a disappointing encounter with him I retreated to the house in despair. I'd made a mistake. I made myself a cup of something hot and sat down with my Bible. When I'm down there is nothing like the Psalms to refresh and remind me of God's heart and His promises. Here is what I read that day: I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will guide you with My eye. Do not be like the horse or like the mule which have no understanding, which must be harnessed with bit and bridle else they will not come near you. God the horseman. Love it. At the time those verses ministered to me in matters of horsemanship. When I read them again last week they meant something different. The bit and bridle leading me around are fears, expectations, and emotions. God's eye, his perspective, is different and I want to be led by that.

My husband confirmed this as we were discussing the situation, our hopes for our daughter through this experience, the fact that we may need to make some changes.

"Remember, Honey, you're only able to see this situation with your small perspective. God sees it differently. Perhaps there is a purpose in all this that you didn't consider."

Expectations. Always the problem for me. I'm pursuing a storyline like this: Neglected and starved horse becomes champion 4H pony for ten-year-old. I can be the beaming mother, proud of myself for plowing on when everyone else thought I was crazy. Instead, I'm the one feeling crazy, emotional, and faithless. I'm suspicious about what God is up to; ready to give up at the slightest opportunity (anyone have a nice, old horse that needs a home?).

Abraham Lincoln said: It is not best to swap horses while crossing rivers. Perhaps Haley and I are in the middle of a river. A river of faith.

Stay tuned.