Bridge Called Hope (29 page)

We followed a rising trail carved through gray granite formations that looked more like rows of gigantic whale-backs than extrusions of stone. With moderate effort, we finally reached the ridgetop. Unable to find a trail leading to the lake, we counseled with our maps, compasses, and each other until we agreed on the correct direction to hopefully come out where we believed the lake to be.

Our toil and sweat was greatly rewarded when we finally located the lake. As with other extraordinary finds in the wilderness, this lake was a true gem. Grass intermixed with granite lined nearly half of its meandering shore. The other half was divided between a large talus flow that looked as if it had once thundered ominously into the lake, filling its depths with truck-sized boulders, and the rest, which finally soared upward, with equal grandeur, into a dramatic rise towering into what looked like heaven itself.

Before swinging down my pack, I glanced at Sue and pointed with the top of my head in the direction of the mountain. Her returned smile reflected my thoughts exactly: “The bath can wait … because
up we must go
!”

Only moments later we were bushwhacking up its eastern spine. Every switchback rewarded us with a new appreciation of our freshly gained altitude. The view continued to reveal itself like flood-waters receding from a precious treasure. Every time we raised our chins, we realized how much “richer” we had just become.

At one point during our journey upward, Sue and I scaled through a region of rock that was heavily laden with what looked like silica. From pebbles to boulders, all the rocks were shimmering with enormous streaks of silver glitter. Virtually every stone beheld its own work of art. For over thirty minutes we carefully picked up one masterpiece after another, handing them back and forth in complete wonder. Truly at a loss for words to describe the astounding beauty we held in our hands, we always exclaimed something completely insignificant like “Wow! Look at this one … here’s another … check this out.”

Together we felt as if we had discovered a lost and priceless treasure. Looking back … in this age of superficiality … I realize that we actually had.

As we rounded up to the summit, I took a deep breath as I once again realized that it is here, within these forgotten fortresses of stone, that my heart leans into the wind and begins to soar.

I have learned that if friendship is my kite, it is the winds of the wilderness that draw it upward toward heaven.

Looking down upon the lake far below us, I noticed that the surface of the water was moving … as I have never in my life seen before. I was completely fascinated. It appeared as a brilliant, living thing. Lit by the blazing sun behind us, down-drafts of wind ruffled the lake into patterns that looked very much like wing strokes from a giant bird. As the wind blew, swirling the water in nearly equal radiating patterns, the sun reflected back this remarkable design in a myriad of golden, gleaming prisms. Though my head could almost explain it, my eyes simply marveled in awe at the astounding beauty that filled them.

I couldn’t look away. With full understanding that I cannot
actually
see
the wind, I can really see only the
evidence
of its existence—I was reminded that faith, like wind, is invisible … but what it moves is not.

At first glance, the surface of the lake appeared to be reflecting only what my mortal eyes could see. Moving in brilliant honey-colored sparkles was a presence skirting over the surface of the water, spinning in every speed and direction, mirroring the shape of repeated unison wing-beats. Yet with the eyes of my imagination, I smiled with the realization that these amazing patterns looked very much like the joyful down-strokes of angel wings as they danced over the waters.

Dear Lord
 … how
could heaven be any more beautiful than this?
I wondered within my heart. No palace walls or gilded thrones created by the hands of men throughout all of history … none … not
one
 … could compare to the glory of sitting in this wind-washed place of stone.

While trying to comprehend the enormous splendor stretching around us, Sue reached silently for my hand. (Having now become an unspoken pact between us, we both agree that there is no better place to thank the Maker, than on top of what He has made.) As real, true and immoveable as the stone we sat upon, was the friendship that bound our hearts together. Thankful to once again view such glory, hand in hand, we prayed together. Each of us asking God to show us how to better shoulder, mirror, and encourage the other. Each giving thanks for another moment of life.

Steeping in the moment, I could not have been any more full. It is here, in times like these, that my heart unfurls like a flag, whipping over all creation … while held secure by the roots of pure friendship.

We need friends … all of us. No person or creature can
survive alone. Nor was any person or creature meant to. Real friendship does more than just make us feel better; truly, it makes
us
better. True friendship is strong, purposeful, honest, compassionate, and steadfast. A real friend gently reveals our weakness, while cheering for every step toward our newfound strength.

It holds us up when we are weak.

For me, it is within the example of what has been “made” that I can clearly see the Maker’s purpose. If I could see His peace … it must look like these high lakes. If I could see His power … it must look like these mountains. If I could see His faithfulness … it must look like this sunset. If I could see His friendship … it must look like these forests. Perhaps it’s not coincidental that the survival of the tallest trees on earth comes from their reliance on the depth of true friendship.

Because of their immense height and remarkably shallow root system, redwood trees should be very susceptible to high wind. Yet they rarely blow down because they practice something truly amazing. Even though they have very superficial roots, they are still free to grow into towering giants because of one simple thing: Redwoods hold each other up.

Initially, it may not look like much support at all when we gaze up into these majestic forests and see these trees only casually touching. What we cannot see is that beneath our feet, few other trees on earth interlock their roots with more tenacity than redwoods. Therefore a redwood tree cannot survive long by itself. It is when they stand together … allowing their intrinsic individuality to weave seamlessly one into the other … that redwoods are truly strong.

When our roots … and hearts … are intertwined together like
the redwoods, we can hold each other up in strength, together standing firm against the winds of adversity.

We need each other. We need to reach out to those around us who are being buffeted by the wind. By choosing to send our love deep into the hearts of those we call friends … our own heart is stabilized, embraced, and nurtured. It doesn’t just happen … it is a choice to send out our roots.

It is God who created roots; it is ultimately we … who must choose to use them.

A
s if inspired to dance to the music blaring from the stereo, strands of long blond hair whipped free from Hannah’s ponytail and danced in the wind that poured through her convertible Mustang. The car was a “dream come true,” a treasured surprise given to Hannah by her father.

Occupying the seat next to her, with mouth open and tongue wagging, sat another treasure, her truest companion—Halen Van Hannah, her Doberman Pinscher. All who knew them understood that wherever Hannah went, Halen went.

At eighteen, Hannah Dunn’s life was as carefree as the classic rock that she sang along to. Balancing on the summit of her golden high school years, she chose to be many things—loving daughter, friend, honor student, horseman, cheerleader, track athlete, and fisherman. Like any teenager, she loved her family, friends, horses, the outdoors, and cruising behind her dad on his Harley.

Hannah was also completely zealous about putting the needs of others before her own. She was determined, strong, joyful, balanced, fearless, and compassionate. Giving of herself through volunteerism was for her was as natural as breathing. Hannah could regularly be found donating her time to the local
police department and the Red Cross. In her mind there was no such thing as a stranger; everyone deserved her attention because everyone deserved to feel liked and special.

It would be impossible to know Hannah apart from her most endearing trademark—her “quick draw” smile and the laughter that always followed. No matter what circumstance she found herself in, she always sought the brighter side and encouraged her peers to do the same.

As a young, natural leader, Hannah taught those around her to overcome their fear. Justice flowed as freely within her chest as her own blood. Like a lioness, she was fierce in her protection of the weak. She regularly used her voice to speak up for those who had none, and she sought to be an advocate for those in need.

Hannah’s youth never stopped her from striving for what she believed in—
doing what she knew was right.
At her school, she made a point to reach out to what most would consider the “fringe” kids, those who did not easily fit in with others. One afternoon, she shared with her mother how she had befriended two new girls: “Mom, you know what they told me today? They said, ‘We couldn’t believe that you would actually
want
to be our friend.
Nobody
as beautiful as you
wants
to be friends with girls like us.’ ” Hannah continued to recount how happy she was that these girls trusted her enough to lean against her as their own self-confidence took root.

“One of our horses has just died … can you help us?”

The urgent plea came from a woman who had owned two horses but had recently lost one. She explained how the horse
had died by intentional poisoning from an unknown soul who clearly wished to have fewer horses in the neighborhood.

“Seven horses in our local area have already died,” she went on to clarify. “My girls and I do not wish to be without our remaining horse, but we cannot bear losing her as well, especially in this cruel way. It is our understanding that the poisonings are happening at night, so the only way we can fully protect our remaining horse is by keeping her in our garage.”

As soon as we were able, Chris and I made the forty-mile trip to check out this sad situation. All we knew about the remaining horse was that she was a mottled gray, small, ponyish five-year-old from the Warm Springs Indian Reservation. We were told that since the sudden death of her best friend, the little mare was reduced to uncharacteristic fear, spookiness, and deep sorrow over the loss of her soul mate. We were also made aware that the neighboring colt—with whom she shared a fence, and who was also a close friend—had died from poisoning as well.

Upon our arrival, the extremely kind woman who had asked for our help led us out into their nearly empty corral. During the daylight hours, they were turning the little horse out for some fresh air.

When we first saw the gray mare, she was lying down. “That’s no pony,” I thought, as we quietly approached her. Apparently napping, she was a bit startled by the visitors and quickly rose to her feet … huge feet! It was immediately clear that this “little” mustang was at least fourteen hands, with the bone structure and wavy mane and tail often characteristic of a draft-crossed breed.

She turned to look at us with the large, slightly crowned head of her apparently massive ancestors.

Her owner laughed a little and stated how a couple had recently come to purchase this mare … until they saw her head. In not so careful terms, the potential buyers made it known that this horse was far too “unlovely” for them to consider purchasing.

I looked at her with complete fascination and curiosity. In my eyes, she was not homely in the least. I felt instead that she possessed a strangely unique, powerful beauty that one might associate with a small horse of war. In her own right … she was stunning.

Together Chris and I carefully evaluated the mare. As we customarily do on the drive home, we discussed everything that we saw and felt while observing the small, gray girl. In effective unison, we both agreed—we were completely smitten with this sweet horse and would bring her home as quickly as we could make a space for her on the ranch.