Chapter Two

Below is a talk, a testimony of sorts. I had the privilege to share about an amazing, life-giving ranch in my area, Raven Rock Ranch. Though I gave this talk about 6 months ago, I was recently asked to publish it here. Seems silly that it is here where I am most vulnerable and did not think to share this with you. I'm calling it my Chapter Two. If you've followed me long enough, you'll understand. If not, "Chapter One" is in my archives to the right. Thank you for asking, whoever you are!

Meg and her Rusty

Raven Rock Ranch Testimony

When I was 26, I was raped. Nine months later I gave birth to a biracial baby girl. She had the daintiest, doll-like features: petite dark chocolate eyes, petal pink lips, and a head full of black hair---though I did not know that right away. She cried and cried until she was placed into my arms for the first time and instinctively I cradled her tiny six pound body into the crook of my neck and without a thought, whispered the words of my heart over and over again, “I love you, I love you, I love you”. Her crying soothed and I kissed her head and then her cheeks and then each of her ten fingers and each of her ten toes. In that moment, I knew she was mine. I knew in that moment I would do anything for her. The trauma we endured together over the last nine months seemed a mere memory. I chose to look forward, not back. Dennis and I named her Megyn, the most beautiful name we could find, which means pearl---and as you know pearls come from oysters, which are ugly, battered, weathered, but the pearls themselves are priceless, a genuine treasure. The same is true with my Meg. I loved her before she was born. I loved her more upon holding her in my arms and now, 15 years later, I love her more than I ever could have imagined.

I knew raising a biracial daughter in our predominately white community and home would be challenging for a multitude of reasons, but in my worst of nightmares I couldn’t have imagined all that my Meg would endure or that we would ever need a place like Raven Rock Ranch; a place for broken souls---some struggling with substance abuse, physical abuse, identity crisis, etc. the list goes on.  But in order to get to the story of how we ended up at Raven Rock Ranch, I need to back up a dozen or so years ago to the time when Megyn was about 3-4 years old---about preschool age, when she was just learning her colors.

At this time, it was part of Dennis and my routine to take one of each of our two girls upstairs to tuck them in bed at night. We’d snuggle under the covers and listen as they would share one good thing about the day and one thing that bugged them. We would listen as they’d say their nightly prayers and then we would pray over them as well. I loved this time---not because my energetic girls were going to bed after a loooong day, but because there was something sacred/special in this quiet time, where tender words of the heart are shared, where cuddles seem softer, and peace feels like my daughter’s small hands reaching around my neck and slobbery kisses that drool down my check. Dennis usually tucked our oldest daughter, Abigail, in and I usually tucked in Megyn. I remember the day when her nightly prayers began to shift from a heart of gratitude, where she prayed, “Dear God, thank you for butter and mayonnaise and cookies”  (not kidding) to a deep agonizing plea that I never would have imagined possible for a child of that age, if I had not heard it myself. “Dear God, please make me pink, like my mommy. God, why won’t you make me pink like my mommy? Can’t you do it, can’t you do it?” And she would sob, tears staining her plump cheeks. And so would I because I knew that the Lord was not going to change the color of her skin. It was then that I knew the struggled I feared for her was taking root.

By the time she was in elementary school, the name calling had begun. Names like “Afro-naut, Sausage lips, Blackie”. And by the time she was in the sixth grade, those hateful words became physical violence. I witnessed with my own eyes seven sixth grade girls circling my daughter kicking and hitting her as they called her these names, in addition to calling her a monster. As I rushed to my daughter, I noticed her disposition. She just stood there; her head hung low, her arms to her sides. She did not try to defend herself in words or actions. She--just—stood--there. Later when I asked why she didn’t try to defend herself, she said, “Because I’m not worth it. They said I’m a monster. I came from a monster. They must be right”.  (Sigh) I knew she was struggling with her identity and with bullying, but I did not realize that she believed that she was a monster because of how she came into the world. Children so easily believe the lies they’re told, even ones they have told themselves…

Dennis and I have raised her like our older daughter, in a house of love and acceptance. Contrary to many people’s fears/beliefs about giving birth and raising a child of rape, she is not a reminder of my attacker and though I will not take the time now to share a lot about that, I will say she is more of a reminder of the sovereignty of Christ in our lives. We do not love her differently than our other daughter. We have spent her entire life speaking and living out the truth of the value and gift of her life has brought to our family. Still, she cannot accept it. She rarely showed emotions, no smiles, no tears. She just existed-- withdrawn, isolating herself more and more, talking only when necessary, only interacting with others on a as needed basis.

Well, it was about this same time frame, sixth-grade, when I had gone upstairs to put clean sheets on her bed, when I accidently knocked over a bench in her room. It was one of those benches, with the top that opens and you can store things inside. Out fell a couple of knives, a runaway list, and her journal. You can imagine my surprise, I’m sure. Her thoughts of running away were not even on my radar. I never expected that, even with all of her struggles. That, in combination with the knives… you bet I broke that mom code about respecting my daughter’s boundaries and I read her journal cover to cover. What I discovered caused such a deep hurt within my soul and questions upon questions piled up---questions like, “How did she get to this point, where she glorified death?” She wrote about it in vivid detail.  And “Cutting? She became addicted to cutting in an attempt to feel?” I knew nothing of cutting. This scared me immensely. And “If love isn’t enough to save my daughter, to show her her worth, what is?”

 I confronted her about what I had read and she confessed all of her written words to be true and pulled up her sleeves up to show me the hundreds, literally hundreds of scars that ran up and down the length of her arms. I had never seen anything like it. When I asked her, “Why”, she said, “Mom, you have no idea what it’s like to live in my skin. I can’t escape it no matter what I do. I need to have control over something. I need it!”. I had no idea the importance of those words until much later.

I knew Meg needed something that Dennis and I could not provide. Really, if love had been enough, she would have been a well-adjusted, typical kid; she was anything but. I refused to leave her alone. I bent-over backwards, compensating for the wrong doings of the kids at school. Really, I was completely terrified that we would lose her to suicide. I made an appointment with her pediatrician and shared what we discovered and immediately he sent us to have further testing done, which revealed a hodge-podge of things: biological depression, anxiety, sensory issues, ADD and the list goes on. Meg was put on medication, which led to a two year roller coaster ride with several different medications and varying degrees of doses being administered every couple of months. Every—single---one---of ---them led her to have hallucinations and hear voices (which by the way where telling her to, “Kill herself”)! Though we did not have our doctor’s “blessing” we weaned her off all medication, feeling completely frustrated because we knew she desperately needed help, but not knowing where to find it.

We eventually found a reputable child counselor and I got a long with her great. Meg, on the other hand, struggled to answer questions or even to open up about the inner struggle she was having regarding her identity and the hatred acts repeatedly done against her. After a few weeks, Meg refused to go. When I asked why, she said, “I feel like I’m in trouble when I go. I feel like all we do is talk about the bad things. It makes me feel worse”. I understood that completely.

Don’t misunderstand me; I am not against medication or counseling. Both play a vital role in so many people’s road to healing/recovery. However, it is not always the best or right fit for some. Meg needed something different; though I didn’t know what. We needed something that she would be receptive to, something that would minister/speak to her tender heart and meet her where she was: a broken place.

By God’s grace and I do mean by God’s grace, we found Raven Rock Ranch.

I called Sandy, shared our story, and asked her if Raven Rock Ranch would be a good fit for my girl. She said, “Yes”. We arranged to meet the following week, which felt like an eternity as my heart beat wildly in anticipation the entire time. Upon arriving, she gave us the tour of the ranch, introducing us to each of the six horses and shared their stories. Each of their stories was of varying degrees of abuse. They were all rescued and given a new life, a new purpose.

As we moseyed through the ranch in our barn boots and heavy fall jackets, I leaned over to Sandy and asked, “So which horse will Meg work with?” She said, “I don’t know”. Looking confused, she responded by saying that she lets the horse choose the child. My smile masked my disbelief, but I agreed to play along.  Arriving at the last horse, Rusty, a beautiful copper colored quarter horse about 12 years old at that time, the same age as my Meg, he was out under a cluster of trees eating his morning hay when we approached the fence. We did not call out to him, we did not bribe him with carrots; we simply stood there watching him. And in that moment, he stopped, looked up, turned, and ran to us, stopping just short of the fence directly in front of Meg and lowered his head. In that moment, he had chosen Meg. Meg instinctively held her hand out to his muzzle and let out the softest giggle. My girl who had not shown any emotion in years---literally years, was not only smiling, but giggling! I knew in that moment that equine therapy was different than anything else we had tried. Meg was receptive. Rusty met her where she was and she embraced the idea of helping him heal. She did not realize that in her brokenness, Rusty would also speak life and value and purpose into her life.

A beautiful bud had blossomed between Meg and Rusty and continued to bloom during their time in the aisle of the stable, where Meg spent a good share of her 90 minutes a week brushing and caring for him and learning to tack. She clearly was in no hurry to ride. She found value in just being together. She gave more hugs and kisses to Rusty than any other horse has ever received---I am certain. She nuzzled noses and whispered secrets that I will never know. She would lay her head on the nape of his neck and just rest. It was enough for her to just be---  So many times I had to bite my lip to keep the tears from falling because what I witnessed time after time was my daughter who could not show herself care, love, acceptance, and grace or allow herself permission to fail or have the ability to forgive herself so easily show that to Rusty. As they worked together, anyone watching could clearly see this attitude of “I know you’re broken, I’m broken too. Let’s work together”. It was something that surpassed respect. It was a genuine friendship.

 Every week I saw smiles. Every week I heard laughter. Meg would go to the ranch no matter the weather---snow, rain---it didn’t matter. If she was sick, she went anyway because she didn’t want to let Rusty down. She couldn’t live without him. He had become her security. She was learning to accept herself--- as she was--- and find her identity in him through caring for him in his brokenness. She realized she was important to Rusty. He needed her. And whether or not she knew it yet, she needed him.

The time spent in the aisle way built a relationship of friendship and trust, which became apparent in the round pen, where Sandy would often teach the kids to ride or become leaders or whatever she foresaw that they might need to work on. Meg enjoyed riding, but could have cared less about it. She just wanted to be with Rusty. Sandy saw this in Meg and had her begin with what she calls “ground work”. The first day she tried this, she had Meg lead Rusty around the round pen and then just drop the lead and slowly start to walk away stopping  20 or so feet away. She believed Rusty would follow Meg because he wanted to, because she was his leader, because he trusted her. Meg desperately needed this assurance---and often.  Meg stood there and Rusty stood there. It seemed an eternity. I watched from the other side of the fence and prayed that she would not feel rejected again. I feared if he didn’t walk towards her, she might lose the glimmer of hope I had seen in her eyes, that maybe she would even give up on Rusty. I hoped and prayed that the Lord would do a mighty work, that He would show my daughter His love for her through the only thing that seemed to be able to communicate with her. In that moment, Rusty lowered his head, snorted and walked to her, he lowered his head again to her hanging hand and nuzzled it. The smile on her face---priceless! She’d rub his forehead and walk on. And he followed. He chose her over and over again. She didn’t have to change anything about herself for Rusty to accept her or to trust her. He just did. When she said stop, most of the time he stopped. When she signaled to back up, he backed up. She was learning that her words have value, that her words mean something---and not just to Rusty, but to those she interacted with. She was learning that if she could be bold with a horse, she could be bold for herself, stand up for herself, and believe in herself.

Not that Raven Rock Ranch is about riding. It’s not, but a measure of the change taking place in Meg could be seen in her riding. When she first began, she rode with her back hunched over as if she was trying to make herself as small as possible. And when she gave directions, her small, timid voice was barely audible. In fact, I remember the first time she wanted Rusty to do something, she said, “If you wouldn’t mind, could you please…”. I am not exaggerating when I say; she had no confidence in herself whatsoever!  By the time she graduated the program, a year and a half later, she was riding well; her posture was tall and confident. Her voice: certain. She was no longer cutting. She learned how to take control. She learned to be a leader.

There was evidence outside the ranch as well. She is gifted musically and writes music as away to process her emotions and struggles. Many of her songs are filled with encouragement and hope for others. When I see her in social situations talking and laughing, she exudes a genuine joy she did not have before. She has learned to accept herself as she is. She is not perfect by any means. There are still days when people’s judgment about her skin color and/or how she came into the world get to her, but for the most part, she has made peace with it.

She graduated from the program a year a ago and another healthy milestone happens tonight, when she attends her first formal school dance. My girl is going to a dance! My girl is choosing to go to a dance!

I am indebted to Raven Rock Ranch for the hope they so freely give and the heart in which they give to each and every child as if they were the only one on earth that mattered. Without a doubt, my Meg is not who she once was, she is living life and life to the full. I could never thank them enough!