Bridge Called Hope (7 page)

My enthusiasm to finally see him was momentarily interrupted when his hind end came fully into my view. As he turned and began moving directly away from me, I could clearly see the injuries on both sides of his rump. Although the gashes on his right rump were partially hidden by mud and hair, the left rump injury was over a foot long vertically, with a fist-sized chunk of flesh that was bitten right out of the middle. It was horrifyingly unmistakable. How could anyone with two eyes not see this?

Dear Lord … how has this infant survived?
I thought, as I noticed a dry trail of bloody serum nearly the width of my arm crusted down the remaining length of his leg.

I could hardly speak. He
was
small! His tiny stature was supported on stilt-like legs with gigantic knees and even bigger feet. He moved with the same huge-footed “flippity-floppity” gait of a large-breed puppy — the same kind of puppy that makes everyone look at its feet and say, “Holy Cow! This one’s going to be a
monster
!” The colt’s legs were heavily feathered with long, silky hair, indicating that he was a draft.

Before I could comment, he turned his head slightly back to look at me. With that distinctively crested profile, there was
no doubt he was not only a draft breed … he was a Clydesdale!

I felt a bit like an adoptive parent who was seeing her child for the first time. All his unique shortcomings, through the eyes of a “mother,” became invisible. Beneath my own breath, I finally said, “There he is … my little boy.”

I was acutely aware that Virginia was watching my reaction. The sheer “wattage” from her smile could not be measured. Perhaps when she first saw him, her response had been similar to mine. After several moments, my voice returned. “He’s a buckskin Clyde? How can that be?” I asked after menally tallying that Clydesdales only come in variations of black, bay, and roan.

“You’re right” she confirmed. “Clydesdales cannot make this color pattern. I have met his sire, who is a stunning seventeen-hand red roan Clyde. This baby’s color must have somehow come through his mother, who I believe was a draft quarter horse cross.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He moved in such a floundering way. Each leg seemed to be traveling in a different direction than the others. He was young … really young. I couldn’t help but wonder how much of his awkward movement was due to his age … or his injuries. Virginia was right about this one; truly, all he needed was a chance.

Once the baby Clyde was settled in his new home on the ranch, we named him “Little Bear” in honor of his remarkable past. I realized that his name would soon become a joke, because his feet clearly indicated that he wasn’t going to be little for very long!

Instinct had taught this youngster that if he was to survive, he needed to protect his injuries. Even though he quickly accepted me, my staff, and the ranch kids, he did not want anyone to touch him from his shoulders back. This posed an obvious problem if we were going to attempt to vet this little man.

As with much in life, consistency is the key. Daily, I would enter his corral and offer him a pan of grain. While he ate, I would gently brush his face, neck and shoulders. If I was alone, having a voice that only a horse could appreciate, I would sing songs for him. Gradually, I would allow the brush to travel a little farther down his body with each soothing stroke. With every little “victory” I would reward him with a massage on the top of his withers.

After a few weeks, our goal was achieved and he would allow gentle touching around his injury. The day soon came when I entered his corral armed with a bucket of warm water, clean rags, sharp scissors, and some ointment, it was time to clean his wounds. Julie, one of the ranch staff, steadied his front end with
one hand and brushed him with the other. Even though he was a bit anxious at times, he was a brave little soul and allowed me full access to the very worst parts of his wounds.

As I carefully cut away dead skin, sloughed scabs, and handfuls of hair caked with mud and serum, I couldn’t help but wonder if this isn’t exactly like those moments when we choose to allow God to come inside and heal us. What a sweet moment of surrender it is when we release a deep sigh and finally turn and reveal our ugliest parts for Him to begin carefully removing all of our “decay.” Once our oozing, emotional battleground is exposed and our festering “sensitivities” are carefully cleansed of all that isn’t truth … only then is our healing free to come.
Wow, Lord … if only I would stand this still for You during these unpleasant but very necessary times of healing and growth
, I thought to myself as I finished up.

“There, we’re all done!” I said to Julie, who was still holding Little Bear’s head while grooming him. Together, we marveled at how much larger and deeper the actual injury was … once it was fully exposed. Yet, we both clearly understood that this was the only way to bring about a purposeful healing.

Little Bear’s damage was so extensive that his injuries took
nine months
to heal. But heal they did.

Our young colt had survived a bear attack at what was probably only weeks after his birth. He survived being badly injured even while separated from his mother, who was his only source of comfort, protection, and love. With a large, gaping wound, he walked right past the searching eyes of those who were seeking obvious external defects. And in a trailer
with dozens of other infants who were healthy and twice his size, he was moved 1,200 miles … without being crushed.

In nearly every aspect of his life today, he stands as one who has both figuratively and in flesh and blood defied what most would consider impossible odds.

When “someone needs to do something” rose up and stood before Virginia and Vicki, they quietly understood that on this day … “someone” was them. They took an unlikely chance on something they believed in with full understanding that what is impossible with man … 
is
possible with God.

True to his heritage, Little Bear now stands close to sixteen hands and weighs in at approximately 1,400 pounds of pure buckskin “play”! Even though his hamstring was compromised by his injury, he has apparently recruited surrounding tissue and remains completely sound.

Today, our “golden boy” still stands as one of the most unique and favored horses among those who come to visit. He is living proof that sometimes what seems unsurvivable … 
can
be survived. His life continues to show us that it’s okay to push
forward, mud and all, through what is painful … to find genuine healing.

“Genuine healing” now lives on my ranch. Daily he proceeds to emanate gentle truth that encourages those around him to pick themselves up and keep trying … even when the way is dark.

His incredible story of survival calls those who are searching and reminds them that faith, when it is authentic, requires us to act and live in the shadow of what we know is already true.

Real faith begets action. When we acknowledge that everything we do has an effect on someone else, either good or bad, it opens our eyes and shores us up against how easy it is to become lulled into thinking that our actions are really just too small to matter much. We clearly see the consequences that when we choose to do nothing … nothing is what we will reap.

At one time or another, all of us have been in a situation where we heard our own thoughts shouting,
Someone needs to do something here
, or
Someone really needs to step up and help.

Real faith encourages us that sometimes … 
someday
is today, and that
someone
 … is you.

Ella, age 4, when calling the horses to the fence:
“Okay, everyone who wants me to pet them …
raise your hands … c’mon, raise ’em up!”