THOUGHTS ON PASSION

Not long ago I watched the movie Soul Surfer. If you were born under a rock (or live in a tiny town named after a cartoon, like me) you may not be familiar with the true story of Hawaiian teenager Bethany Hamilton. Born to surf, the passionate athlete lost her arm in a vicious shark attack off the coast of Kauai in 2002. Forget about surfing, she's lucky to be alive.

But Bethany could not simply forget about surfing. Her story is an inspiration and modern commentary on the power of passion. It is especially appropriate for what I have been going through lately in both my equestrian and spiritual life. Passion, as it turns out, makes all the difference when one is hit by the unthinkable.

Passion is a word I've been tempted to throw around at times in a sort of casual emotional sense. A person's "passions" are highly individual, but they are also defining whether it be a romance, the practice of faith, or expressed in a hobby. One may feel passionate about gardening, or mountain biking, or horses. They just *love* to do it so a certain effortlessness must be involved, right? As it turns out, the word passion--from the Latin passio--literally means "to suffer for." It's purest form isn't found in the pages of a Harlequin Romance; it was originally affiliated with the sufferings of Christ on a Roman cross 2,000 years ago.

Passion can be found in unlikely places; like in the tearful lament of an armless teen--"I just don't see how this can be God's will"--who initially gave her beloved surfboards away. Later, Hamilton returned to the ocean to re-learn the art of surfing. After suffering dramatically, the teenager went on to compete professionally and inspire thousands with courage beyond her years. It seems one cannot be truly passionate without first suffering in some way. When the going gets tough the depth of our passion is revealed and we find out who we really are.

In the last nine days the depth of my equine passion has been sorely tested by disappointment. It's tempting to give it in and take up something less demanding. Bird watching, for instance. I spent my birthday this year at an equine surgical center emptying my wallet and crying my eyes out while vets determined how my daughter's horse, Cowboy, will ever recover from a critical hock injury. I'll spare you all of the details but suffice it to say a mysterious "blunt force trauma" tore a tendon, punctured his joint cavity, and cracked a vital structure called the hock. This is anatomically equivalent to the human knee. It can take a horse's life if infection sets in, a very real fear from the beginning.

If this happened to Eli I would grieve, but ultimately be okay. I've suffered for my passion before (Can I hear an 'Amen'?) But this is the beloved friend of a child and, if the worst happens, will be her third horse in four years that has been lost to strange catastrophes. She is done competing in western games on this horse--maybe forever--after working hard for two years. It seems impossible and deeply unfair.Though I love this horse, my personal breakdown comes in seeing the disappointment of a child and knowing there isn't one thing I can do to make it make sense or go away--"I just can't see how this is God's will." My daughter is young and vulnerable and I feel her pain more keenly than my own--I just want things to work out for her; for life to magically become "fair."

Yesterday we were ready to euthanize Cowboy as he hopped on three legs and hung his head in the corner of the stall in misery. But xrays suggest a tiny bit of hope and my faith rests, regardless of outcome, in a promise that "All things work together for good for them that love the Lord." Eventually.

The disappointment in all of this--and overwhelming thought I'd have to put another horse down--has been such that one day I told a friend, "I think I'm done with horses." Murphy, you win. Inviting a horse and equestrian goals into my life and that of my daughter has also invited pain and disappointment. Like Bethany Hamilton, I thought about hanging up the surfboard.

The Easter season approaches as I think about all this, medicate a stall-bound horse with an uncertain future, and let my daughter decide where to go from here. It's a good time for us both to consider what it means to follow the heart in the various passions that define it. And on Sunday, passion will be celebrated in the picture of a cross. It epitomizes committment, courage, suffering, and reward. I'm inspired to "count the costs" and choose my passions carefully.

Happy (passionate) Easter.

WOUNDED BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

It is hard for the Lord to use someone unless they have been deeply wounded.


I pondered these words after reading them in an online devotional several months ago. I found the thought inspiring. And troubling. The deeply wounded do not have a place of significance in society. They are at odds with what is valued in the world. Power and success belong to the strong, the beautiful, the "self made." The unsullied. Being wounded, vulnerable, stripped of all physical ability, is not too appealing.

At the Easter season this year I am not thinking of cute little chicks, pastel colors, budding tulips or large bunnies that magically deliver chocolate eggs. I am thinking of what I do not want to see--brokenness and suffering. These things have great value in God's reality. Why? Not because He enjoys seeing His creation suffer but because God loves to take what is wasted, despised and devastated and fashion from it new life. A heavenly recycling business where nothing is wasted and beauty is concealed within shabby wrapping paper. This is the real Easter story. The one that does not appear in large print on store windows.

Last fall, hunters in the Oregon Cascade range were startled when a horse wandered into their campsite late one evening. He might have stepped out of a horror movie. Face and neck heavily encrusted with blood, the horse's left eye hung lifeless from its socket. The animal wore a halter, lead rope, and full set of shoes. A crudely wrapped wound on his front leg further testified to human care at one time. The horse, though horrifying in appearance, was calm and friendly. He was later transported to Bend Equine Medical Center. What veterinarians found was astonishing.
Xrays revealed the horse had been shot, twice, in the head. Miraculously, both bullets missed the brain. He had been wandering for an estimated two weeks with a stinking, infected leg wound, a shattered eye, and a broken jaw. Fully half his blood volume was missing.

Veterinarians estimated the animal to be about six years old. Barely full grown. He had obviously been somebodies riding horse; following somebody trustingly into the wilderness to be disposed of. Why? There were a few clues. The horse was small, plain, and brown. A sway back--unusual for his age--spotted with white hairs told a story of hard riding and an ill fitting saddle. Then there was the leg wound. In six short years the horse had worn out his usefullness.

When the perpetrator was found out, the truth of the animals circumstances were even more disturbing. Christened Hero by his new owners, the gelding was one of several horses scheduled for disposal in an attempt to, "get rid of all the Arabians" in a local riding program. Wrong breeding, wrong owner; wrong place, wrong time. Some horses are simply unlucky. Or incredibly lucky

When the story of Hero's ordeal broke, people world wide rallied to his support. They found inspiration for life from the near death of this once unwanted horse. One letter, with no return address, came in the form of a Post-it note: I was thinking of ending it all, then I read about Hero. I have decided to change my mind. Thank you.

Says Hero's new owner, Kim Meeder of Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch, "It is amazing to see how God has used this horse to encourage those who are hurting."

New life after devastation. Beauty from the unlovely. God's specialty is vividly showcased in the Easter story of another discarded and wounded life. Jesus Christ.

The viewing of The Passion of the Christ was important for me. It wasn't like the serene Jesus statues showed in churches everywhere, discreet spots of red on his hands and feet, the stoic look of inevitability on his face. The grit and blood, sweat and tears--the emotion of Christ--displayed in the film rips apart comfortable christianity that sings familiar hyms on Easter Sunday and goes home to ham dinner and egg hunts. Leaving the theatre weeping, I thought I would be happy to never view the film again. But I needed to see the utter physical brokenness of Jesus. While I will never experience the violence of a cross, I relate to feeling rejected and broken. Sullied. I feel it and see it in myself everyday. Fortunately, that isn't the end of the story. There is a rescue at hand, a new life before me. Like Hero, I am wounded but not forgotten.

For more on Hero visit: http://www.crystalpeaksyouthranch.org/.
Photo of Hero by Emily Greene