For my daughter on her first birthday

For my youngest, on her first birthday:

My beautiful baby girl, you came into the world on the wings of a storm.  The summer of 2012 was hot and dry, so hot and dry that I was near to miserable carrying you in July.  Although you were not officially due yet, I must have had the look of a desperate pregnant woman, because other women often asked me, “Honey, when are you due?  Didn’t you have that baby YET?”  Then, on the night of July 18, we had a storm, the first rain in weeks and weeks.  At 2:00 am on July 19, my water broke.  During the summer of a record drought, your daddy drove us to the hospital as it rained sideways across the highway and we could barely see.  You arrived like a storm, too, quickly and with little warning.  We pulled in to the hospital around 4:00 am and you were born by 5:00 am.  They had to hold you off to give the doctor time to get to our room; within ten minutes of her arrival, you were born.  The nurse said, “That’s the way to have a baby!”  By 7:00 am, I was ready for breakfast.  Since then, I’ve learned a few things about you.

• In your first year, you are like the summer.  Most of the time, you are sunny, warm and friendly.  Once in a while, you are stormy and angry.  When the storms come, they are fierce and not easy to abate.  Luckily, they are few and far between.
• You are expressive.  You dance, laugh and smile with abandon and your angry yells can be heard throughout the house.  Although you have no words so far, you can tell me what you want.  If you’re hungry or thirsty, you crawl (or walk) to something and smack your lips.  It’s clear what you’re trying to say.  
• You are determined.  If there is something you want, you will grab it and hold on tightly (even if your older sister is pulling your hair to get you to let go).
• You are confident.  If you want to climb something, you will do it.  Never mind if the step is above your head, your little leg is trying to reach it.
• You are resilient.  It’s amazing to me to watch you learn to walk.  You failed more than you succeeded, but you kept going.  Most falls would not even phase you; you just get up and go again.  If it hurts, you come to someone for a moment of comfort and try again.
• You are loving.  You yell with excitement when your daddy or I come home from work.  You cuddle into the person who’s holding you and rest your head on her shoulder.
• You are energetic.  You love to be on the move and you don’t want to be held for long.  You crawl and walk quickly and you are always exploring, climbing, trying new things.
• You are joyful.  You love to turn on your toys that play music and you dance, swing your arms and clap.  Your giggle is infectious and your shrieks of laughter carry through the house.  

Little girl, I am so lucky to have met you and I can’t wait to see how you grow.  This first year has contained your first teeth, your first food, your first steps, so many firsts that I cannot count them.  I delight in watching you become a joyful, determined, brave person. I hope you continue to meet life’s challenges with the tenacity you’ve shown so far.

Ben's story, Part 2

I was usually sceptical of horse-person love stories, like Black Beauty or War Horse.  The child in me wanted to believe that horses remembered their people and longed to return to the ones they loved.  But, I was a realist.  I made my living training and competing horses.  I treated my animals fairly and cared for them with respect and love.  I sacrificed for them and celebrated their accomplishments.  I weeped for their pain.  But, I never entertained fantasies of tearful, nickering reunions.  You know the ones, with the horse galloping across the field to reunite with the long-lost friend?  I never allowed myself the indulgence.

Recently, I have had the incredible opportunity to rescue a horse from my childhood.  B.W. Bendigo (Ben) is an Arabian gelding that my family bred, raised and trained.  He was the first horse I got to start all on my own, from the first day of halter training to his first championship ribbon.  He followed me to college and to another state, when I began my training career.  In April, I found him at a local horse rescue, with 23 of his stable mates.  The horses had been starved within inches of their lives, left to stand in their own waste, left without water, with halter marks on their faces and blackened tar on their long hair.  Ben was in the worst shape of all.  I had never seen the bones in a horse’s neck, but I could trace Ben’s spine in his once-muscular neck.  There was little evidence of the beautiful animal he had been once.

To be honest, there was no nickering, loving reunion that first time I saw him.  Understandably, Ben was focused on eating.  He had been with the rescue a week and was eager to take advantage of the good food and care they offered.  He allowed me to check his teeth, feet and feel him all over but he hardly raised his head from the hay pile.  Still, I knew it was my horse.  It’s difficult to identify a grey horse, because their color changes as they age.  The photos I had from ten years ago didn’t look much like the aged bag of bones in front of me.   But, there was the nickel-sized white spot on his nose, the white hind foot,  the hair whorl on his forehead, the shape of his dished face, and the look in his eye.  Even after all he’d been through, he was still my Ben.

The rescue, Clawz and Pawz, were friendly and helpful.  Whether they believed my story that this was my childhood horse or not, I’m not sure.  However, they let me care for him and foster him back into health.  Maybe they were just grateful to have someone speak up and care for a 23 year old Arabian--not the easiest horses to place in new homes.  After a few weeks at the rescue, Ben came home to the barn where I board.  The barn owner there could not have been more helpful in attending to Ben’s every need.

It was a shock to see Ben amongst other healthy horses.  Boarders and lesson riders asked, “What is wrong with that skinny horse?”  Within days, he became a barn celebrity.  His friendly nature and sad story earned him lots of extra attention, under which he thrived.  After several baths, the black tar-like dirt came loose from his long hair.  By May, he finally shed his winter coat, which he’d been unable to do while he was malnourished.  He showed his spirit trotting around his pen and playing with neighboring horses.  He had his feet trimmed and his teeth floated and he began to gain weight.

Although there was no Disney movie reunion, I know that Ben remembers me.  He does nicker when I come to see him and he asks me to rub his favorite spots.  I still kiss the white spot on his nose, the way I did when we were both quite a bit younger.  It amazes me that he is still the same friendly, silly, well-mannered horse that I knew.  

When I think of Ben and his companions waiting for food, waiting and waiting, until they quit nickering and banging the stall doors, until they gave up hope, until their bodies began to shut down and their eyes became dull, until their neighbors died of starvation...  Well, it makes me sick to my stomach.  After all they’ve been through, these horses are bright-eyed, shiny-coated and ready for new life.  They don’t hold grudges or wallow in self-pity, they just get down to the business of life--eating, playing, living for the day.

Ben and his friends are lucky to have lived through such horror.  Some of their companions did not make it out of the farm.  Twenty-two other horses wait adoption and forever homes.  Their lives are forever changed by what they’ve been through and they have changed the lives of many, many volunteers.  I know I will never look at selling a horse in quite the same way and I will never overlook a suspicious situation with animals.  It is better to be cautious, ask questions and talk to authorities than to blindly trust someone.  Sometimes even well-meaning people need help and the animals cannot speak for themselves. I’ve learned quite a bit about grace, forgiveness and love from my horse, Ben.  He taught me patience when I was 17 and he is teaching me forgiveness when I am 37.  

As I write this, I want that Disney ending that always made me snort in derision.  I long to see Ben grazing in the field where he was born, with the friends from his youth.  That day will come soon enough, I assure you.   There is a lesson, a message, a moral to this story but I can’t quite see it yet.  Ben’s and my story is not over yet.  To be continued...

It's not all about me: finding what I need

Today I arrived at church late, harried, and impatient.  It is no small task to get two kids under four years old fed, dressed and out the door to get to 8:30 mass.  I was annoyed that mass is switched to 8:30 am in the summer, instead of the more reasonable 9:15 start for Sunday School during the rest of the year.  I was annoyed that I forgot K’s bottle and had to drive back home for it.  I was annoyed that I was late and, as usual, that annoyance spilled over to blaming others.  Who is in the nursery?  Why are there announcements before church?  Why can’t I get myself settled down in peace?  And, why didn’t I have another cup of coffee, for God’s sake, because I am already starting a caffeine withdrawal headache?

    Suffice it to say that I really, really needed some peace and quiet and here I was at church.  Honestly, I could have found peace and quiet better at home, with the baby napping (as she needed to do at this moment) and the 3 year-old playing with her toys.  I could have had my second cup of coffee, or done some yoga, or even read morning prayer from the Book of Common Prayer.  Why am I bothering to get to church?  I am not getting what I need.

    Thank God for that thought, because it brought me pause and brought me out of my self-pitying reverie.  I knew right away that I was leading myself down a dead-end road.  I did drop the kids off at the nursery and, although I missed the entrance and first hymn, I got to settle down.  I know the answer to my own question of “why am I going to church?”, at least the “official” answer.  I go to church to be in community with others, especially other Christians.   I go to share in the mystery of Christ--except that sometimes it doesn’t feel very mysterious.  Sometimes it feels tedious and mundane and it’s not the fault of the priest, the choir, the setting.  It’s in my own heart. 

    This is a new feeling for me, although it’s probably familiar to many other people.  See, I’m one of those people who love church.  I didn’t always love it, but for the last year I’ve approached the Episcopal church with the fervor unique to new converts.  I look forward to it all week, I go on “special holy days”, I sometimes go to Wednesday mass if I’ll miss Sunday.  But, today I wasn’t feeling it. The peace I needed was eluding me; I couldn’t get out of my own way enough to find it. I knew enough to pray for patience, as tears of anxiety and frustration welled in my eyes.

    God delivered the patience, of course.  I think that for each person there is one crucial lesson that we learn throughout our entire life.  For me, that lesson is, “Linda, it’s NOT about YOU!”  I have learned it when dealing with horses, family, children, students, co-workers and now I am learning it about church.  Obviously, I am a slow learner, because it keeps coming back to me.  The readings today brought that point home, for sure.  

    The Old Testament reading was 2 Kings 5.  Please excuse my non-academic paraphrase of it.  There is this important warrior, Naaman, who has leprosy.  His slave girl tells him to go to her prophet, Elisha, to be cured.  So, he packs up his important stuff to go to Israel.  The king of Israel is mad because he thinks Naaman is trying to pick a fight with him.  Again, the king thinks this is about him, when it is clearly someone who just needs some help.  Elisha takes on the problem, but he doesn’t meet with Naaman individually.  Instead, he sends out a messenger, saying, “Go wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh will be restored and you shall be clean.”  OK, great, right?  Elisha helped out the guy and now he can get better.

    But, Naaman is mad because Elisha doesn’t bother to meet with him himself.  And, it seems silly to be told to wash in the river Jordan, when there are much better rivers at home in Damascus.  Shouldn’t Naaman have to do something bigger and more meaningful to be saved?  Here, the light bulb clicks on for me.  Naaman is insulted because things aren’t big and mysterious enough for him, even though the healing he needs is just within reach.  Just like I am impatient and anxious because things didn’t quite go my way this morning, even though the patience I need is just within reach.

    Anyway, Naaman takes the advice of another lowly servant, bathes in the river and is cured.  Glory to God!  When he puts away his own notions of how things should happen and realizes “it’s not all about him”, he actually gets everything he needs.  I get a lesson from his example and start to settle down and listen.  Here’s the funny thing I realize:  once I accept that “it’s not about me and my needs”, my needs are magically met. Those words are an incantation of sorts, that change my perspective from focused on what I desire to a wider focus.  The wider focus allows me to see that I actually have what I need.  When the priest gives us the peace of God, I actually feel it surrounding me.

My children and husband are immeasurable blessings.  Still, it’s hard to see that when all I long for is a quiet moment.  My church community is an incredible blessing.  I can’t notice the peace and healing waiting for me there when I’m frustrated and beside myself.  It’s as if I’m complaining about needing something that is actually staring me in the face, if I only open my eyes.  Learning the lesson, “it’s not all about me” actually brings ME exactly what I need.  I relax and notice the treasure that is buried in my own backyard.