Bridge Called Hope by Kim Meeder Read Free Book Online

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 wasno 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 withone 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