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!

Acorn

The warm sunbeams danced relentlessly amongst the oak tree’s leaves overhead, fading the dark green leaves to chartreuse with the slightest of breeze as they caught the sun’s brilliant light. Wrestling leaves whispered overhead while a rainbow of colored art supplies sprinkled the table below, and whinnies of horses in the nearby pastures and the stable just off to my right sang harmony as I knelt on my knees at the art table facing an 11 year old boy whom I just met.

He looked like an average 11 year old boy, lanky with dark hair and eyes and a crooked smile that immediately endeared me to him. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, revealing the brace on his leg. I never learned exactly what his disability was, something to do with his muscles, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.  He had come to Raven Rock Ranch this day expecting to work; but instead was asked to do art with me. He was readily compliant and walked to the table and then just stood. His arms hung heavy at his sides as his eyes took in the array of colors. He didn’t say a word at first, but his lips would purse and then pull taught and his eyebrows furrowed and lifted as if he were in deep thought for several moments. And then suddenly, a sigh escaped and he picked up a green oil pastel.

I had come with a specific art project in mind for the kids, but upon seeing his anxiousness about art in general, I decided to skip it, follow his lead, and work more intentionally on building a relationship with him.  I picked up an orange oil pastel and started to draw. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to draw. I really don’t know how to do any art.”, he said in a single breath. I laughed, trying to break the tension, and said, “What a relief! Neither do I! Maybe together we can make something pretty cool”. We decided to make an alien, taking turns drawing each body part and article of clothing. It was a messy colorful creature that had one eye, a tongue sticking out the side of his head; one long arm and one short arm. He was also nearly circle in shape with two short legs. It was quite the sight, I assure you!  We talked as we drew and I learned that Samuel loved sports. I mean really loved sports. Soccer is his all time favorite. He could ramble off players, teams, trades, scores and the like. We decided to make our alien a soccer player.

Looking at this finished creation, I said, “If this is a soccer player, he needs someone to play against. We should make another alien”. Feeling more relaxed about the process of creating, he agreed. We took turns drawing each element of our creature again and talked more about sports and his dream to become a soccer player. My heart sank as I listened to his grand plans, knowing his disability would not allow him to play the way he dreamed.  Nearly complete with our drawing, I handed him the oil pastel to draw the legs. He drew one long leg and one short leg. It seemed to suit our crazy creature, but I couldn’t help but to see the personal connection he was making to this creature. In the end, this alien had a football shaped head, one eye, the neck of a giraffe, muscular arms with two uneven legs.

We named our players crazy made up names and laughed about how silly they looked. Samuel kept talking about sports and without thought, picked up an oil pastel and drew a goal and a soccer ball off to the side. I asked, “If the two were really playing, who do you think would win?” He pointed to the first, nearly circular alien. I looked at him, questioning his choice, while pointing to the other alien telling him I bet this one would win. Samuel quickly refuted my vote by pointing to his uneven legs and said in an almost in urgent tone, “He would not be a good player. He would probably lose the game for the whole team”. I pointed out his long neck and gigantic eye and told him that he would be able to see everything and be able to tell his teammates where to go, what to do, and such. “He would be the most valuable player for sure”! Samuel still disagreed, but then was silent. He set his pastel down, hung his arms to his sides and fixed his eyes on the player with uneven legs.  I could see that he was not going to leave that conversation under the oak tree that day, but take it with him, perhaps pondering his own value.

Although the Lord was unwrapping something so profound for him to see, to accept about himself, I knew it hurt. Wanting to encourage him, I shared with him that my husband, Mr. Dennis, was once the star pitcher for his baseball team and had played for 13 years, never missing a game. He had such talent that he was awarded a scholarship to play in college. Though playing was Mr. Dennis’ first love, as he got older, he could not play like he used to, like he wanted to. Years later he helped coach a team for our church and as it turned out, Mr. Dennis made a terrific coach. His love for the sport equipped him to see all positions, read the body language of the opposing team and make wise calls. Coaching was just as important as play and incredibly fulfilling. Samuel looked solemn, nodded his head and said, “Yeah, if I can’t play, coaching or being an announcer might be kind of fun”.  I sat back on my knees, awestruck by the work the Lord was doing in that very moment in this boy’s life.  It is my hope that he sees his value and learns his true identity.  He is loved, He is accepted. He is valued. He is wanted. He is treasured. And it has nothing to do with his ability or disability.

Later that day, while driving home, my heart was burdened for Samuel and several other children I had the opportunity to do art with that day. I witnessed their hurt, their lack of self worth, their insecurity, anxiousness, and fears. My heart has always wept for these children, but today some of these children now have faces and names. My heart bids me to pray on their behalf constantly and that lump in my throat seems to be ever present. Driving home, my mind wrestled with the hurt and in my human mind, I searched for more ways to help when I heard (not audibly) “Just pray. Just keep praying”. God has a perfect plan for each of these children.  Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that it is not to harm them, but to prosper them and to give them a hope and a future. I love the verses that follow: “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with your whole heart. I will be found by you, declares the Lord, and bring you back from captivity…”

It has only been a few days, but I can still see the brilliance of those oak leaves glimmering in the sun. And as I sit here, in front of my large picture window that looks out to a forest of trees, I am reminded that each of these majestic trees started out as a small seed. I cannot help but to see the children at RRR as little acorns. They are in the deep dark soil feeling as if they will always be there, perhaps feeling frightened, alone, not able to trust, perhaps paralyzed either by past experiences or the unknown future. But God’s plan is that they will one day grow into a great oak, strong, vibrant, and full of life; praising Him for giving them hope through Raven Rock Ranch and a future in Him.

Trust Follows

Bitter frost glimmered brilliantly underfoot as it caught the early afternoon’s sunlight, crunching raucously as we sauntered toward my truck, while escaping my lungs through hazy vapors lingering at my lips. My winter kissed nose began to run and so did the tears, for my heart had been etched with the most precious of memories.

I had spent the last hour watching Rusty, our angel in horsehair (!), follow Meg around the round pen without a lead, without a single touch. I watched Rusty lower his head to her waist, turn circles, back up and stop simply by the sound of her voice. If I had not seen it myself, I would not have believed it. I honestly do not know of anything more life-giving than to watch a girl who struggles with her value and a once neglected horse bond. He was free to do what he pleased and he chose to follow her.

I recall our first day at Raven Rock Ranch. It was a warm fall day and Rusty had been keeping himself cool in the shade of a cluster of trees at the far end of the pasture. When Meg approached the fence, it was if he had always known her. He trotted to the fence, bent his head low and breathed in her scent. Her smile had been held captive for countless years and in that moment Rusty had unlocked not just her smile, but her precious giggle as she leaned forward to nuzzle noses with him. Sandy, owner and operator of the ranch, revealed that he never does that. He chose her that first day. And she chose him.

Every week for a few months now Meg has looked forward to our time at RRR. She cleans stalls, grooms Rusty, and has been learning to tack and ride. Her small voice, awkward gestures, and lack of confidence confine her in most areas of her life, isolating herself, floundering in self doubt, and engaging in self-destructive behavior. However, Rusty sees beyond that. He simply sees his girl. She shows up and his quiet day becomes a vivid wonderment as they work together to meet each other where they are. They do not need to pretend with one another. Their hearts have been gravely bruised and yet they have chosen each other to journey toward healing, learning to trust one another along the way.

Today, Sandy unhooked the lead from Rusty’s halter and asked Meg to slowly walk away from him, believing that he would follow her. After several steps it looked as if Rusty was not going to follow. He just stood there. His ears twitched as he listened to the slightest crackle of frost laden footsteps and the whinnies of horses in bordering pastures. He lowered his head, smelling the air as if searching for anything to give him direction. Meg stood still, her back to him, just waiting. I am certain she would have waited for him all day for I have never seen devotion like hers to Rusty.

Rusty had never been given a choice before. Never. Now, he had freedom to do what he wanted and it clearly confused him. Several minutes passed and finally he took a step---walking parallel to where Meg was, not to her. Admittedly, I chuckled. It was as if he was saying, "I want to be near you, but I will not do it exactly like you want". Typical 10 year old behavior!  Sandy reentered the round pen and instinctively, yet unconventionally asked Meg to breathe into Rusty’s nose. Horses greet each other by breathing into one another's noses, so it seemed likely that he would identify with Meg, recognize her on a different level if she were to do the same. With both hands planted on her knees, she stoop to Rusty’s lowered head and breathed into his soft muzzle. Frosted air escaped her petal pink lips, rising heavenward. Then, without a word, Sandy left the pen. Meg began to walk and Rusty followed. Meg stopped and Rusty stopped. She walked in circles and so did he. He was smitten with a girl he was learning to trust!

Trust sees what physical eyes cannot. It is a deepening, a ripening, a willingness to wait for God in the unplanned place of obedience, and to walk with God at the unplanned pace of obedience---“to wait in His place, and to go at His pace”, knowing with certainty that He will carry us through all our afflictions. Trust requires faith. It feels risky until we know; really know the One we’re walking with.

Boots

Meg slowly slid into the truck this day, looking deep in thought, not saying a word. Usually quite upbeat after our time at Raven Rock Ranch, this day Meg looked as if she was about to cry. I turned the corner onto the tree lined gravel driveway, heading towards home, hoping she would open up but silence met me and begged not to leave. Almost home, I finally asked, “Are you OK?" Without a word, she turned to face the window, but I still saw a single tear fall from her dark chocolate eyes and her petal pink lower lip began to quiver. Searching my mind for the answer so she would not have to breathe it to life herself, I asked, “Did something happen at the ranch today that upset you?” Her gaze lingered on her folded hands resting on her lap as she shook her head no and then yes. I usually try not to pry or rush her into sharing something before she is ready, but it was clear she was hurting and as her mother is it hard to let her marinate in that level of pain.  “What, honey? Tell me about it”. When she opened her mouth to speak her words quickly became uncontrolled heavy sobs.  I could only make out a single word: boots. Now I understood.

This day she had been gifted with riding boots to borrow while we are at the ranch. Sandy, owner and operator of Raven Rock Ranch, casually mentioned that she had bought some riding boots for the children who visit the ranch, feeling it was important because of the angle in which the child’s heels rest in the stirrups and the message it sends to the horse. Meg had been wearing rubber rain boots which are cute and keep moisture out, but would not protect her feet from her four-footed angel, Rusty’s 1200 pound body if he were to misstep or offer the freedom to dip her heel in the stirrups. At any rate, Sandy told Meg the boots were in the tack room and to find a pair that would fit.

Meg later told me the boots were still in the box—brand new. “I knew Sandy expected me to wear them and I knew they were better for riding, and for Rusty too, so I wore them, but I felt guilty for wearing them”. She did not have to explain any further for I, too, have known this kind of guilt---an unworthiness for receiving something without any merit on my part--But Meg did continue. She asked, “Why would she do something so nice for me? She really doesn’t know me that well and she spent her money on me”. Without a thought, I softly replied, “Because she loves you, Meg…because she loves you and wants the best for you”.  She was quiet the rest of the ride home and even for awhile once home. I imagine that she was processing that someone she has only known a short time genuinely cares about her. Later that night, when her Daddy came home from work and asked about the ranch, the first thing she mentioned, with those dancing, chocolate eyes, was the riding boots! This time joy oozed with each spoken word, not guilt.

Misplaced guilt, guilt that is not warranted because we have done nothing wrong or dishonored God in anyway, sneaks in to rob us of the freedom we are meant to live in Christ. It destroys our joy and binds us to feelings of unworthiness. Misplace guilt isolates us, sentencing us to a life deprive of acceptance for who we are in Christ.  It focuses on self, rather than on Christ. Simply, misplaced guilt is crippling.

I have known for a long time that Meg believes she has no value, that she was an accident, and is loved only out of obligation and to have watched her agonize unnecessarily over a precious, thoughtful gift broke my heart--- and yet I wondered if this gesture of kindness would be the spark she needs to expose her value.  We haven’t been back to the ranch since this day, but I am eager to see how she feels when she pulls on those leather riding boots later this week.  It is my prayer that she will wear them in freedom and not out of obligation or guilt---that she will embrace this beautiful gift and see her worth.

We do not need to feel guilt for something that honors God.  The only way to battle the crippling effects of misplaced guilt is to live rooted in the absolute, unshakable belief in the promises of God, hold them close to our hearts, and never doubt Who He is; what He has done and will do for us. This is called “living by faith”—having complete confidence in “future grace” and a life of freedom from crippling guilt. Doubt is a tactic Satan loves, absolutely loves to employ as it keeps us from living fully vested in Christ.

Meg talks constantly about Raven Rock Ranch, Rusty: her angel in a horse suit (!) and Sandy, her faithful sidekick and mentor constantly as each element of this piece of heaven on earth has gifted her with a joy that I have never, never seen before. The boots…she will wear them every visit and I believe they will serve as a reminder of her value---someone loves her and cares about her, not because they have to, but because they want to—they choose to! 

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Can we, like Paul, not only find contentment in weakness, hardships, persecution, and calamities, but also view these circumstances as opportunities to exalt Christ? Our value is intricately woven into this scripture and begs us to keep our focus on Christ, the Author and Perfector of our faith and not on our self. It is here that we see our value. He chose us!  He loves us! He forgives us! He blesses us…even with boots!

Trust

I am certain the imagine of Meg gently laying her head on the nape of Rusty’s neck  as we were setting out to leave the Ranch today will forever be imbedded in my mind. I hope it is at least for it captured a tender moment between a hurting girl and a horse who knows pain all too well himself. Hugging Rusty after a gentle meandering through trails blazing with harvest colors and crisp leaves under foot this afternoon; I saw a connection between them that I did not see so readily last week. There was trust.

Trust usually takes time to build. Though it has only been two weeks, an unyielding bond has been made between girl and horse. Perhaps there is an unspoken language rooted in deep respect for what one another have been through. There is tenderness toward one another, a beautiful dance of love and respect, of safety and harmony. Nothing, nothing could be more beautiful to witness as the melody of grace fills the air.

In sharing our experience at Raven Rock Ranch, I have repeatedly said, “There is just something incredibly remarkable happening there”. The foundation itself was built upon Christ and without a doubt; His grace is touching hearts, kids and parents alike, on a monumental scale. This place is different. This is not a temporary fix, this is life-giving. This is Hope. And it is here that my Meg is learning to trust!

Until today, Meg has not known this kind of trust. She lives on the defensive, always, as a way to protect her heart from being hurt further. She lives from the place of doubt and discouragement. Her wounds are not only raw; they run deep, to the core of who she is. She has been in desperate need of our Great Physician for years, though she cannot see that. As her parents, we have tried countless things from extracurricular activities to help build her self esteem to counseling and medication; all which leave her with temporary results, temporary hopes.

Watching Rusty run to the fence to greet Meg is an image of how it is when we show up to spend time with God. He RUNS to us. It doesn’t matter where we have been, what we have done or what has been done to us. He is jubilant in our return! In our return, He see our hearts and the dark, searing pain and is not spooked or surprised by it, rather the melodious dance of grace continues as He so gently whispers in our ear, “…by my wounds you have been healed, my Beloved (Isaiah 53:5). Trust in me.

Trusting in the promise that God will work all things together for those who love and have been called according to His purpose not only brings Him immense and holy pleasure (Romans 8:28), but also reminds me that it is for HIS good and perfect pleasure we seek, not ours, that though our hopes for healing may or may not take place, His glory is the ultimate goal. It has taken me a long time to see that even when my prayers, hopes, and dreams are not answered as I would like, that God is still God. He is still merciful, still trustworthy.

I know that I can do nothing on my own strength to bring God glory. I need Him. Honestly, I am in great need of Him. I have waited for His strength, His courage, knowing fully that He, in His perfect timing, would supply all that I need. And without a doubt, I see it so clearly at Raven Rock Ranch that I cannot keep my joy hidden (unfortunately my joy comes out in tears, which is embarrassing!). I have put my hope in Him. He is my Refuge, my Strength, and my Treasure.  “From Him and through Him and to Him are all things; to Him be glory forever and ever”(Romans 11:36).

Trust is the first step toward healing and today, Meg took it with Rusty.

Hope

The fragrance of Hope filled the air, smelling like a sweet bewilderment of musky sweat and dust; the smell of horses to be exact.  Thursday was a day I found myself unable to stop smiling, constantly biting the inside of my cheek to keep tears from spilling out, and silently praying prayers of immeasurable gratitude as I watched my dear Meg nuzzle noses with Rusty, a copper colored horse at Raven Rock Ranch, a place where God’s grace is extravagantly gifted to children who are struggling or are at risk.

Usually a horse that sits back to see what will be asked of him, this day Rusty, a rescue horse who was gravely neglected, RAN to see the new girl! It was love at first sight! Meg, a nearly thirteen year old girl, has been living in the dark pit of depression and anxiety for quite some time, rarely smiles or engages in conversation, smiled constantly this day! As her face beamed, my heart swelled with thanksgiving for the precious gift of Hope that lingered in the air. It was obvious that my sweet Meg was still in there somewhere.

As I watched Meg’s short and gentle brush strokes send dust from Rusty’s back into the filtered sunbeams in the barn, I was reminded of that morning’s reading, specifically Psalm 147:11 “The Lord takes pleasure in those who hope in His love”. Biting my quivering lip, I allowed my mind to bask in the Truth. I could practically see the smiling face of God as I breathed deeply His bountiful life-giving grace He was bestowing on my family at that very moment!

What pleases God is not our work for Him, but our need for Him.  For years, I have begged Him to rescue my daughter from the foothold that Satan clearly has in her life and for years I did not see Him working. I worked, on my own strength a good share of the time, exhausting my resources and shattering my ill-placed hope time and time again. Brokenhearted and completely humbled, I whispered aloud, “God, I know you love her more than I do. How it must grieve your heart to watch her like this. I know that You are bigger than this. I need You so desperately, she needs You so desperately”. Then, there on my knees, I opened my hands toward the sky as a way to say, I am not holding on to this anymore. I am handing it to you.  I trust in you alone. I will wait for you.

Trembling as I sat there in front of my large picture window, the place I love to sit and pray, the words of an old hymn from my childhood, “How Great Thou Art” came to mind and I once again found myself in tears as I praised His precious and holy name.  God is so good. He is so merciful. Regardless of what life brings, I am eternally devoted to Him and will magnifying Him, His mercy, grace, and love at all costs! Who God is does not change because of circumstances. He is the same yesterday, today and forever (Hebrews 13:8). He is unchanging.

Once home, I stripped off my barn clothes only to catch the fragrance of Hope once again. Instead of tossing my clothes into the wash, I held them to my nose and breathed deeply the scent of one of the most precious gifts my family has ever been given: God’s tender mercy. I cannot offer God anything but my humble praise and gratitude. I pray that in this and through this experience at Raven Rock Ranch that His glory will be magnified as His grace satisfies the hearts of all who ride there!

Hoping in Christ’s love is the fragrance of His grace and this week it smelled like horses!