Bridge Called Hope (8 page)

A
ll I could do was wonder as I looked at the three-year-old colt that stood before me. As a pale, palomino Appaloosa draped with a long white mane and tail, he was truly a rare and spectacular beauty. Yet my eyes continued to fall to his feet; my perplexity was completely centered on one question: “How can this young man even stand on feet such as these?” I have seen much equine hardship in my years of horse rescue and rehabilitation, but nothing like the four hooves that balanced in front of me.

His pale, almost ethereal golden color stood out in sharp contrast against his hideously purple hooves. It was obvious that not long ago, this youngster sustained such significant trauma to all four of his hoof capsules … that they responded by filling with blood. I could only imagine crushing all of my toenails … then trying to stand on tip-toe. With every searing heartbeat, his pain must have throbbed like unison hammer blows to each hoof.

I ran my hand up under his forelock and rubbed his forehead. Just the thought of such pressurized agony made me wince.

He was owned by a friend of mine who had previously sold the beautiful colt to someone who she thought would provide a good home for him. Sadly, she was wrong.

Like so many other tales of equine woe, even the best of intentions from their human keepers, without good follow-through, are worth less than the time it takes to think them.

It was my understanding that the new owners had “intended” to have the colt’s feet trimmed, but never did. Unfortunately for the youngster, his hooves grew out into an abnormally vertical “tin can” shape. His hooves, instead of having a normal forty-five-degree angle from the coronet band (hair line) to the ground, were nearly vertical. All of his natural shock absorbing ability was negated by the new harsh angle above his hooves. Each ankle, instead of gracefully dipping toward the ground with every step, was now forced to thrust straight down, literally “jack-hammering” the hoof capsule with every painful step.

The young horse was finally put out with other adult horses that “ran him down” for several days because he was new to their herd. The colt’s resulting injuries caused such severe damage to the inside of his hooves that they had indeed filled with blood.

When my friend was made aware of her former horse’s situation, she strongly encouraged the new owners to have a farrier come out and begin rehabilitative trimming immediately. Adding to the young horse’s troubles, the new owners thought that “anyone with a pair of nippers” would suffice, and inadvertently employed a backyard butcher! The “farrier” they hired hacked off so much of the colt’s foot that he cut into living tissue, causing nearly uncontrollable bleeding from the colt’s mutilated feet.

That was more than enough reason for my friend to show up at their ranch, with her trailer in tow, and buy the crippled young colt back.

After knowing all of this, it gave me great surprise when I stepped away from this troubled young spirit … and he followed
me! Although he was much improved since his “trim,” I was certain that every step was still an effort for him.

In the time that ensued, I thought often of the beautiful, pale colt, always wondering if he was all right, if he was healing well, and if my friend had found a suitable home for him. I smiled to myself, yielding full recognition that this unique young horse had limped his way deep into my heart.

It came as no surprise to me that when a space became available in our horse program, he was the first one that came to my mind to fill it. Only days later, I was settling him into our quarantine paddock.

Karen, a friend of mine, called and described how she was a new volunteer for Sparrow Club and was just beginning to work with a wonderful, very horse-crazy little girl.

It is one of our highest honors to serve those who might need something “extra.” We are privileged to partner with other organizations who also strive to fill the void within children who are struggling to cope with circumstances that reach far beyond “normal.” One such organization is called Sparrow Club. This unique outreach “adopts” kids that are in medical crisis and raises funds to offset their medical expenses. What is so awe-inspiring about this group is that those who are responsible to raise the financial help are all kids! To my knowledge, this is the only youth-based charity that does this kind of service. Not only does the “sparrow” receive financial support, but perhaps even more important, they receive tangible encouragement, friendship, and love from their peers.

It was explained to me that this child was very sick with an extraordinarily rare disease that primarily attacks the heart. It seems that the illness inhibits the heart’s ability to grow along with the child. Ultimately, the child’s growth exceeds their
struggling heart’s capacity to supply blood to their own body. My friend shared with me that the oldest previous survivor of this condition died at the age of nine … our little friend was ten.

After making arrangements for both of them to come to the ranch for a visit, I hung up the phone and just stopped.

It is so easy to be sidetracked by the difficulties in our life and completely miss how incredibly precious every minute is … 
every
minute.

Days later, when the ranch was quietly closed, my friend Karen arrived with her young companion. When the little “adopted sparrow” slipped out of the car, from a distance, she looked like every neighbor’s little cutie next door. She was beautiful. Her slender frame was topped with wavy blond hair and intense blue eyes. Appropriately, her name was Angelica.

As she approached, every step seemed to carry her farther under a cloak of acute shyness. When she finally stood before me, her timid demeanor prevented her from even looking up.

Together, all three of us walked slowly over to one of the picnic tables on the ranch. Even though she was slightly behind me, I was very aware of how labored her breathing was.

When we reached the table, I chose to sit across from Angelica so I could get to know her a little better before we started our day. Immediately I could see that this was far too much engagement for her. Karen saw it too, and gracefully excused herself, releasing Angelica to perhaps speak more freely.

My new little friend could manage only to look straight down at the table or the ground. All of my questions about her life, her family, her pets were met with a near silent shrug or nod.
How many times has she been through this, Lord?
I wondered, as I continued to observe her fidgeting uneasiness. It was then that I noticed it. Although extremely faint, it was certainly
there; encircling her lips was a very pale “halo” of blue.

I didn’t know weather this bluish ring was a result of her condition or a response to her rising level of stress. The one thing I did understand was that this type of “communication” between us was not working at all. I needed to shift gears fast.

“Hey, I’ve been told that you and I have something in common. We are both horse-crazy! I was so glad to hear that about you because I have a young horse that just came to the ranch not long ago, and he is in great need of ‘horse-crazy girl love’ … do you think you could spare some?”

Her blue eyes began to lift. She did not look at me, but instead looked around for the horse I had just described to her.

“How about if we go to the tack room and get a halter for the new young horse that needs some of your attention?”

At this question, she did look directly at me. It was brief, like a little spark arcing across toward a like conduit. As small as it was, it became the tiny current of commonality between us. Together, we slowly walked toward the tack room to get a halter.

In the short time that my “pale boy” had been at the ranch, he had consistently demonstrated remarkable poise and quietness for such a young horse. He presented more like a much older soul … all except for his relentless curiosity, which drew him like an unseen magnet to explore
everything
.

As we walked into the quarantine paddock, I was pleased to see that he not only turned to face Angelica, but actually took a few steps toward her as well. He was so gentle with her that I chose to allow her to lead him alone. I walked closely behind Angelica to assist her if she needed my help. She didn’t.

Although it cost her physically, she seemed pleased that she accomplished the simple chore alone. Once at the hitching post, we retrieved a brush bucket from the barn and began his
grooming process. We stood side by side, both brushing the same part of the horse’s belly. The rhythmic motion seemed to have a comforting effect on her.

“I love horses …” she volunteered.

With raised brows, I looked at her sideways and smiled. “Me too,” I added.

Step by hesitant step, like a little fawn cautiously venturing out into a clearing, she began to speak. If I looked directly at her, she would stop talking. But as soon as I looked straight ahead at our horse, the trickle of words would continue. I was absolutely fascinated by this shy phenomenon.

I shared with Angelica the young horse’s story and how much suffering he had endured. Her brushing nearly stopped; she was processing that fact. Maybe she was identifying that they were similar in their paths of pain.

Without looking up she quietly asked, “What’s his name?” Her tone and posture indicated that this was vitally important to her.

“He doesn’t have one yet. Nearly every horse that comes to the ranch is renamed as a symbolic passage into what we hope will be a better life for them. He is so unique—not only in his story but also his color as well—that he needs a special name. Maybe you can help me name him?”

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows and look at me sideways with a little grin.

The little trickle of words had become a steady flow.

After grooming his body, cleaning his hooves, and combing out his silky mane and tail, we had completed our task. An uncertain crossroad split before us. I didn’t know how much she was able to do, so instead of asking what she couldn’t do, I asked her what she
wanted
to do.

In bewilderment, I watched as her countenance fell back to the ground again. Her small eyebrows furrowed together in what looked like a full-on bar fight between her rising anger and plummeting sorrow. Her colliding emotions mounted until her beautiful face began to show the stress of imminent tears. After what felt like long moments, she finally looked up at me. Her expression embodied pure frustration, anger, and sadness all tangled around a wounded little heart that fully understood how unfair it was that her life was going to be far too short.

It was her eyes that gave her away. The conflict of her illness versus her will raged behind them. Her mortal illness shouted, “I’m sick and it’s getting harder and harder to do the things I love!” while her indomitable will shouted back, “Yeah, but I’m just a little kid, and little kids should get to ride little horses! I just want to be like everyone else who has the chance to ride.”

The internal balancing act that Angelica had been trying to maintain about her life and her illness completely collapsed into crumbling despair. Her expression shattered into unmistakable brokenness. Without saying a word, the slight upturn of her eyebrows indicated what her pleading heart was truly trying to ask.

In utter helplessness, I watched as her sky blue eyes filled with glass.

Finally, in a voice nearly choked out by unshed tears, she squeaked, “I think I should get to ride.”

“Okay,” I confirmed, as I glanced across the main yard toward Karen. Because the ranch was so quiet, I was certain that she heard Angelica’s request. Her expression clearly registered concern, yet she confirmed Angelica’s mother’s wish: If she is willing to try, allow her to.

I reached down for Angelica’s hand … and she reached up. Hand in hand, we walked into the tack room.

“So, what do you think we should name him?” I tossed out while gathering our tack.

“Hmmmmm, he needs a very special name,” she said with a very thoughtful look.

I looked out the window at our young horse and continued “He is such a beautiful color, what would you call gold that soft? I think that he looks like what Heaven might look like … I think he looks like the promised land … don’t you?”

I turned toward Angelica just in time to see her head drop as her little face began to crumple under the weight of intense emotion. Immediately I realized my reckless blunder.
Oh Kim, how could you be so clueless!
Without even thinking, I had shoved my little friend right in the direction that she soon might be going. Understandably, it was clear that her child’s heart had not yet come to terms with what will be inevitable for us all. I wanted to cry. She wanted to cry. It was such an awkward moment that we just stood together in the tack room looking down toward the floor.

A lonely tear slid down her cheek and dropped off her chin.

There were no words to say. While holding her tack over one arm, I reached down and rested my hand on the back of her bowed head. Her blond waves were so smooth.

I ran my fingers through the baby soft ringlets that had gathered on the back of her neck.

In complete silence, little tear drops began to dot the tack room floor.

Within the faint breeze moving across the ranch, time just seemed to blow away.

As she began to gather herself, I felt her body rise with a shuddering sigh. Then, out of the stillness rose a thin voice that
wasn’t much more than a whisper: “If I had my own horse … I would name him Promise Land.”

Kneeling down before her, I looked up into her flushed face and simply asked, “Do you think Promise Land is the right name for him?”

While catching a tear with her bottom lip, she silently nodded in agreement.

“Well, that’s it then! His name is Promise Land,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as the moment would bear. In return she gave me a weak smile and began wiping off her face.

“Let me grab his bridle and we’ll be good to go,” I said, while reaching toward the back wall of the tack room. Angelica had walked out ahead of me onto the small porch. With new resolve she placed her little fists on her hips and leaned forward, nearly shouting,
“Hey, Promise! How d’ya like yer new name?!”