Great Horse Stories (25 page)

That day fueled a flaming desire inside Ted, a desire to protect the innocent and honor others who do the same. After leaving Vietnam, he served in law enforcement and is still actively involved in honoring veterans. Although Ted had ridden and owned horses throughout his life, he'd never ridden on a battlefield to honor the soldiers who had died so many years ago. That is why Ted and the men he was riding with were here now—to honor those who gave their all.

The beat of hooves striking the ground reverberated through the dawn. A solemn air hung over the troops as they rode single file up a tall hill. Ted's thoughts drifted to the previous days when he'd walked the grassy battlefield they'd be on today. Stark white grave markers dotted the field where soldiers had fallen—soldiers with antique weapons, no communication, and only their feet and horses for transportation. Clusters of white markers showed the intense areas of battle. The men who had died here had signed up to serve. They didn't have a choice as to where to go, what battles they would fight, or who their commanding officers would be. They'd been willing to give their lives for the United States—and they had.

An American flag gently waved above the soldier in the lead, who held the pole steady with his hand. The end of the pole rested on his stirrup. The second in line displayed the Guidon flag, a smaller red, white, and blue swallowtail flag of the Seventh Cavalry, also known as the “Guide.” As the men on horseback topped the hill, they silently formed a line facing east. Reining in their horses, the soldiers waited for the sun to fully rise. Only the occasional creaks of saddles broke the silence. It was as if the horses knew this moment was sacred.

A cool Montana breeze carried the summer smells of fresh green grass and the sweet bouquet of prairie flowers. The men in blue uniforms sat astride their horses waiting. Men and horses almost looked like statues. The sun's rays poked above the horizon. A voice rang out.
“Draw your weapons. Prepare to fire blank ammo.” In unison the men drew their pistols, many of them Colt .45s, the weapon most of the fallen soldiers had carried.

“Fire!”

Six times the guns roared in unison on command. The horses held their positions. After the last volley, each soldier held his weapon across his chest at parade rest.

As the sun rose, a bugler played Taps. The woeful sound drifted down the hill and across the dew-drenched meadows. For several minutes the reenactment soldiers watched the sun cast its golden light across the rolling hills. The man carrying the Guidon flag turned his horse and rode off. Next went the man with the American flag. As he turned, the flag gracefully waved. The rest of the men fell in line single file. Again only hoofbeats drumming the grass was heard.

I was intrigued when a friend told me about Ted and his ride. After I met him and got to know him a bit, I realized that what I admired was how Christ was reflected in Ted's everyday living. His passion is to be an advocate. He fought for freedom, was a voice for the innocent, and continues to honor his fellow soldiers. When Ted stands in the gap separating good from evil, he reflects Christ's nature. Jesus Christ is an advocate and defender: “If anyone does sin, we have an advocate who pleads our case before the Father. He is Jesus Christ, the one who is truly righteous” (1 John 2:1
NLT
).

Have you needed an advocate? Have you been accused of doing something wrong? Have thoughts of defeat or shame attacked you? Did you know that the spiritual accuser is the devil? “Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8). Revelation 12:10 casts light on how deviously persistent the devil can be and tells of his future: “The accuser of our brothers and sisters, who accuses them before our God day and night, has been hurled down.” Did you know that day and night the devil is accusing you of sin and telling God how unworthy you are?

What happens next is supernatural. In my mind, the scene plays out like an old-time John Wayne western. The bad guy—the one in the
black hat—is bad mouthing someone. The sheriff steps in and says, “Hold on there a minute, Pilgrim.” And he proceeds to straighten everything out according to the law. If we're born again, Jesus is the sheriff and advocate who steps in to defend us. He willingly died for us, giving His all to rescue us, defend us, and restore our relationship with God. Have you considered how powerful that is? God, in the form of Jesus,
personally
represents each one of us who choose to repent of our sins and call on His name for salvation.

•
Ted getting ready to ride
•

Knowing Jesus willingly defends me sheds new light on His love for me. He's truly my hero. Is He yours?

Lord, thank You for giving Your life to rescue me, defend me, and restore my relationship with You. Amen.

•
Thoughts to Ponder
•

How do you feel when you think of the devil accusing you of sins day and night before God? What might he be saying about you? Is it true? Have you repented of your sins and given your life to the Lord Jesus Christ? If you have and are living with Him as your Lord and Savior, the devil can accuse forever but he won't be heard. Your advocate, Jesus, stands between the devil and you.

39

THE CASTAWAY

Unwanted

T
he barn lights cast an eerie glow through the cold rain that drummed against the hood of Sharon's blue raincoat. Grunting, she pushed the full wheelbarrow to the manure pile outside the barn. After dumping it, she sighed and stopped to catch her breath. Floodlights illuminated the outdoor arenas and cast fingers of light through the pastures. Sharon cocked her head. In one of the wide rays of light and about 100 yards away was a ghostly outline of a horse. She squinted. The vapor from the heat of her breath mingled with the frigid winter air and floated in front of her eyes. She blinked in surprise. A white horse?

He stood in the cattle pasture where no horses were supposed to be. Sharon leaned forward, resting against the wheelbarrow.
What is he doing here? Whose horse is he?
The horse stood all by himself with his head hanging low. His tail was tucked in close, and he seemed hunched up as if he were freezing.
He looks too thin,
Sharon decided.
Could he be hypothermic? The cold rain is washing away his body heat. He won't be able to get warm until the sun comes out. He might be dead before then.

Suddenly the horse lay down. Unable to get comfortable, he struggled to his feet again. His body teetered, almost as if he couldn't decide what to do. Then he put his feet together and sank back to the ground.

Alarmed now, Sharon wondered if he had colic. Pain in his gut would make him lie down and get back up again. Colic could kill him if he's left alone.
Whatever he is, he's in pain and needs help now!

Quickly she pushed the wheelbarrow into the barn and put it away. She sloshed through puddles to the 100-year-old, two-story ranch house. Standing on the porch, she wiggled her muck boots over the
boot scraper before stepping inside. Warm air enfolded her. She made her way down the hall to the office, her footsteps echoing off the tall ceilings and plastered walls.

The ranch manager sat behind a wooden desk. Streaks of gray highlighted his dark-brown hair. He glanced up as Sharon walked in.

Sharon rubbed her hands to warm them as she asked, “Do you know whose white horse that is in the cattle pasture?”

Joe rested his muscular arms on the desk and folded his hands. “It came in this afternoon with the load of cows I bought. The owners didn't want it, so they put it on the cattle truck.”

Sharon shared her concern that the horse looked like he was in pain. He might be in danger of hypothermia or even colic.

Joe looked at her like she was droning on about a stray cat that had wandered in—the one no one wants to feed because then it'd stay. He tried to dismiss her concern with a shrug and a fatalistic attitude. “Sharon, the horse is either going to make it or it's not.”

Sharon flushed and put her hands on her hips. “I'm going out there to put a halter on him and take him into the barn. I'll pay for the extra stall. I'm going to take care of him. No horse will suffer while I'm around.”

Joe leaned forward and his brown eyes narrowed. “Do what you feel you have to, but you're wasting your time. I don't think you can pull that horse through.”

Slipping on the hood on her raincoat, Sharon stomped out. She sloshed to the barn. Grabbing a halter she slung it over her shoulder. Slopping through the mud, she eased her way through the gate and out to the pasture. The rain slapped the ground and spattered mud on her jeans. When she got within 20 feet of the horse, she slowed her walk, not knowing what to expect.

She ran her eyes over him. The horse shivered violently, his head hanging nearly to the ground. His eyes were half closed. He was a bag of bones. His drenched fur accentuated his tautly stretched skin. Rain ran in rivulets between each protruding rib. Mud from lying down plastered his legs and belly. His hip bones protruded like knobs.

Sharon grimaced.
He's been starved so long he doesn't have any flesh
on him to keep him warm. It's amazing he's even alive. How can anyone treat an animal like this?
With compassion, Sharon eased next to him. Slowly he opened his eyes and tried to focus his dull-looking eyes. Their gaze met, and sorrow pierced Sharon's heart. She sensed this horse knew he'd been tossed away but didn't understand why.

Taking the halter from her shoulder, she eased the straps open wide and held it under the horse's nose.

For a split second the white horse looked at the halter, his mind too cold and slow to comprehend. Then he obediently dropped his nose between the straps.

Gently Sharon buckled the halter. Grasping the lead rope, she lightly lifted it, encouraging the horse forward.

The poor guy struggled. As he stepped forward, he sighed.

Sharon led him through the gate, into the barn, and put him in an empty box stall. Grabbing towels from her tack room, she rubbed down the horse from head to tail. He was so thin it was like rubbing an old-fashioned washboard.

Even though he was still shivering and seemed to be in pain, the old boy kept looking back at her. He nudged her with his nose.

Sharon was sure he was saying thank you. Fierce determination rose inside her. No matter what, she was going to do everything in her power to bring this horse back to health. And then she was going to keep him.

The pile of soaking wet towels grew. Sharon wicked enough of the water and mud out of his coat to notice that he was really a leopard-spotted appaloosa. After bundling him in two fluffy horse blankets, she mixed up some hot mash and held it in front of him. She watched him weakly pick up pieces of grain and roll them in his mouth before swallowing them. She added more shavings to the floor, filled the water bucket, and tossed a couple flakes of hay in the manger. Satisfied she'd done everything she could, she said goodbye and drove home.

The next morning when she arrived at the stables, she went into the barn and looked over the stall door. The spotted horse nickered softly to her. He even had a glint of life shining in his eyes.

When Sharon shared this story with me, my heart ached. The barn
was a busy boarding facility. There were a lot of people there who knew this horse was suffering and close to death, yet nobody else stepped in and offered to help. Why? Was it because it might cost them time or money or something else? Was it because the horse couldn't do anything in return for them? That there was no tangible reward for a good deed?

•
Much-loved Sedona
•

Many years ago when I lived in Kalispell, Montana, I was driving my red-and-gray Dodge diesel pickup through town. My eye caught sight of a hunched-over man with a dirty beard and straggly gray hair. He was walking through the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. Flung over his shoulder was a bulging, black-plastic trash bag. The stoplight in front of me turned red. My pickup's diesel engine surged as I downshifted.