Fierce Beauty

by Kim Meeder

  At the hospital it was confirmed—his wounds were severe.

  I pulled my truck to a stop in front of the Bend Equine Medical Center. Rarely have I parked in their yard and not felt deeply grateful that the one equine surgery center serving the entire eastern half of our state is just three miles from my ranch. After working many difficult cases with them, I’d learned to trust this remarkable group of veterinarians and their assistants. This team’s combined dedication and compassion move me to love them not merely as friends but more like family.

  I had barely pushed through the hospital doors when I was besieged by a landslide of information. When the small horse was admitted and led into the trauma center, his condition was immediately assessed. Remnants of a green elasticized bandage had grown into the gelding’s left front leg and effectively become a tourniquet. As the tattered bandage was carefully cut away, nearly all the flesh beneath it sloughed off as well. Adding further to the suffering of the abandoned bay was a horrific open gash on the back of his left front cannon. The infected wound had festered so much that its rotten stench filled the room. Once the layers of caked blood, pus, and biomatter were removed, the working tendons of his leg were clearly visible.

  While my friends washed their new patient’s leg, they noticed a heavy trail of crusted blood that traveled up his leg, shoulder, and neck. This hideous path provided further evidence of the severity of his injuries. Blood tests showed that the small gelding’s plight was even more precarious than initially thought. Through the trauma of his injuries, he had lost fully half of his total blood volume—for a horse his size, nearly four gallons! In their combined careers the attending vets had never seen a horse lose so much blood—and live.

  Next came the obvious question: where had the blood loss come from?

  The team followed the dried-blood trail to the horse’s left eye. It was completely destroyed and hanging out of the socket. So putrid was its bloody surface that much of his long black forelock had adhered to it and needed to be cut off. The damaged eye would have to be removed once his blood volume was restored to a normal level. Behind his horrifying eye, they found a small, ominous depression.

  As bad as his eye injury was, his head injury was much worse.

  The x-rays revealed the unthinkable. This gentle little horse with the kind spirit had been shot in the head … twice.

  Looking at his x-rays, I was aghast at the meaning. Someone had shot this placid soul through his left eye with a solid bullet and then again, three inches behind his left eye, with a hollow point. The trajectory of the second bullet traveled through the top of his lower jaw, shattering it. The bullet continued to penetrate his skull as it exploded into dozens of jagged—and inoperable—fragments of shrapnel.

  I looked at him for the first time and couldn’t believe he’d endured so much.

  The little Arabian had survived for weeks with a horrifically infected leg wound, a broken jaw, a destroyed eye, and lethal blood loss. He managed this feat with the remains of two bullets scattered throughout his head. If all this weren’t bad enough, he was also left to wander in a high-altitude forest while dragging a lead rope. Any one of these afflictions could have easily killed him. Inexplicably, he’d survived them all.

  Now, here he was standing before me in an intensive care room. From under a turban of bandages, he blinked inquisitively at me with his one remaining eye. It was a miracle he was standing at all! I noticed that his hind legs were splayed out in a weakened effort to maintain his feeble balance.

  I shoved back the heavy door and quietly entered his white cement room. Though the gelding’s head was bandaged, one leg was tightly wrapped from hoof to knee, and he had catheters embedded in both sides of his neck, he reached out to me. Despite his fragile state, he wanted to give me what he had, the gift of equine encouragement. Though the small gelding was so diminished from dehydration, malnutrition, and infection that he could hardly stand, he expended the extra effort to greet me. As I extended the palm of my hand to his offered muzzle, incredulous wonder filled my heart.

  Unfortunately, this simple gesture was more than he could bear. While leaning toward me, he suddenly lost his balance and began to fall. In the process he knocked me against the cinder-block wall, and we fell to the floor together.

  Thankfully, we were both unhurt by the tumble, and I was able to help roll him back up to his feet. With his head hung low and his hind legs looking like Bambi’s on ice, his remaining eye expressed equine embarrassment—I assumed for knocking me to the floor. Even in his mortal state, his only concern appeared to be for me. After surviving the ultimate human betrayal, this little horse still had hope that there were good people in the world, and he dared to believe that I was one of them. Though he had no reason to, he still chose to forgive and trust.

  What a spirit. What a horse. There in an equine intensive care room, I realized that I wanted to be more like him … because he was more like Jesus.

  With both hands on his shoulder and my hip braced against the wall, I helped him find his balance again. “Oh, little man, we’re all right,” I whispered. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  I gently rubbed the bay’s neck and back. In a voice only he could hear, I said, “You’re going to be okay, sweet boy. You’re safe now. All is well. You’re going to get through this, you’ll see. We’ll do it together.”

  Once the bullets were discovered, a full investigation was launched. Clearly, this was not an accidental shooting committed by an overeager hunter. Neither did it look like the mercy killing of a mortally wounded or old, decrepit horse. The beautiful gelding was not even fully grown. His leg wound was terrible but certainly not fatal. This shooting was done at close range with two different types of ammunition.

  The mystery surrounding the small horse grew when his caregivers and I noticed his feet. Not only were his hoofs well trimmed, but they also had fresh nail holes. This indicated he’d worn a full set of shoes that had only recently been removed. Something else that caught our attention was several white spots on the top of his abnormally high withers. Someone had ridden this horse with a saddle that fit so poorly it wore the skin right off his back, leaving behind several telltale white scars.

  There was another compelling clue. Though the gelding was very thin, his coat exhibited health dapples, a condition that results from horses being exposed to excellent feed over time. In response to the nutrition, vague dappling will present throughout the coat and will usually cover the shoulders, sides, and rump.

  Without words this little horse was telling us he had belonged to someone. He’d recently been a very healthy gelding wearing a full set of shoes and had been ridden enough with an ill-fitting saddle to have incurred sizable scars.

  From all the evidence, the medical staff at Bend Equine and I deduced that someone felt this horse’s leg wound was just too much to deal with. Somehow they believed that loading up their friend and driving him to a remote location to be destroyed was their best option.

  Our working scenario was that the perpetrator had shot the gelding through the left eye with a solid bullet. Astonishingly, this did not kill him. Apparently this person then reloaded with a hollow-point round—designed to kill—and shot him again three inches behind the left eye. We believed the young horse fell to the ground, knocked unconscious from the impact. Thinking he was dead, the perpetrator left the scene. Bleeding profusely from his wound, the small horse then lost half of his blood volume.

  Miraculously, the gelding awoke. Somehow summoning the strength to stand, he lurched to his feet and staggered away. He refused to give up. In the face of impossible odds, he continued to put one foot in front of the other, step after step, until he walked through his wilderness.

  In the following weeks I spent time nearly every day with our new boy. I didn’t wish another minute of this abandoned horse’s life to pass without his knowing that he was cherished, that he belonged to someone and had a loving home waiting for him. I wanted this horse to understand h
e had a new family now that already loved him very much.

  Surprisingly, even though his wounds were grave, his spirit was not.

  Amid great pain and some necessary unpleasant care, he was still happy. Every day, once he heard my voice down the hall, he called out to me. Inside his intensive care ward, from beneath the pirate bandage that covered and supported his damaged eye, he would whinny a greeting. I always imagined him saying, “Hey, girl who loves me, I’m down heeeeeere!”

  Immediately we became very dear, very close friends. Yet he proved that I was not his only friend; he adopted the entire staff at the hospital as well. His actions confirmed that he was an incredibly thankful little horse. He was grateful to have been rescued, to be receiving care even through pain, and to be loved.

  To keep his spirits buoyed during his extensive healing process, I often drove truckloads of kids from the ranch to spend time with him. Though his head and eye were heavily wrapped and he was enduring great pain, he always took the time to acknowledge every child that came to give him a kiss and a hug. Soon the door of his hospital room was papered with cards, letters, and colorful, clumsy drawings made by those whose only wish was for him to get well so he could come home.

  His strength slowly improved. When the weather allowed, the supportive staff at the hospital turned my new boy out into a small outdoor enclosure. It was here that I often brought a writing tablet and pen and just sat with my friend in the weak sun of late winter. Sometimes I brushed him, sometimes I scratched all his itchy places, and sometimes, when he seemed to be struggling with the pain, I softly sang to him.

  When I finally sat down to write, he would often join me. He circled like a dog looking for just the right spot, then folded up his legs and gently lay down beside me. A few times I was honored to have him succumb to lying completely flat. Once he was stretched out, it was only a matter of moments before he serenaded me with the peaceful sound of complete equine trust—he snored.

  During this season of recovery, I learned a great deal about my remarkable friend. He was courageous and happy. He was a survivor who’d fought hard to live, to keep going. Most horses would have perished when faced with just one of his symptoms. Yet he survived what many would consider insurmountable odds. The more I pondered our gelding, the more I realized just how symbolic he was of the vast majority of us.

  At some point in life, nearly all of us go through horrible, unthinkable times. We feel as if we’ve been led into the wilderness, perhaps by those we loved and trusted, beaten badly, and left for dead. We stumble away, wandering within the desolation of loneliness, unable to help ourselves, unable to stop the hemorrhaging, unable to find our way home. Our horizon of hope begins to fade into gray. Death looms.

  Yet so often in this place—our darkest night, our deepest wilderness, our greatest despair—when our hope is bleeding out, we call on His name, and He comes. Jesus Christ enters the wreckage of our hearts, our blackest place, our wasteland of hopelessness, and He leads us home.

  Continued reflection about my sweet boy revealed something else. Like a soldier returning from battle or a small horse from the wilderness, we too can choose to fall into the welcome arms of those who love us. We, like the soldier or horse, might not look the same on the outside as we did when we left. When we come home from our battle in the wilderness, we might be scarred or disfigured. Yet according to one extremely wise, eight-year-old ranch volunteer, all of us have potential to be hero material—not because of how we look, but because of what we’ve done and can do. As he so eloquently stated about his wounded, four-legged friend, “It’s not his outside that makes him so lovable. It’s the inside that I love. It’s not what the outside looks like that makes him a hero. It’s the inside. It’s his heart—that’s what makes him a real hero.”

  Since my wounded horse was such an incredible symbol of redemption, mercy, and salvation, I decided to name him in honor of those who’ve chosen to serve our great country with their lives and those who’ve chosen to reach for the hand of the Lord and walk through their personal wilderness. His name became Hero.

  After four months in intensive care, my little Hero was ready to come home to a true hero’s welcome. The news about his undying hope had spread. While pulling up the ranch driveway with my sweet four-legged son in tow, I could hardly believe the sight that greeted us. Over three hundred people had gathered from all over the Northwest to usher this once-abandoned horse into his new life. I drove up the driveway through a cheering hallway of waving arms, all reaching out to embrace the little horse that wouldn’t quit. The ranch was bursting with men, women, and children who’d come to invite this kind soul into his new family.

  While slowly maneuvering through the applauding crowd, I was struck by a thought: Is this what it feels like to finally enter heaven? Is this how our family members who’ve gone on before will receive us? Will they be cheering, embracing, crying, reaching for us in love and welcome? I hope so.

  Once the trailer door was opened, Hero stood looking out over the crowd with his one remaining eye. Instead of being terrified by all the commotion, the cheering and clapping, the only expression on his face was one of joy.

  He’d shown everyone the truth in Psalm 23:4: “Even when I walk through the dark valley of death, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.” He chose not to stay in his place of suffering but to walk through his “dark valley of death.” Because he did, he encouraged others to do the same.

  He’d made it. Hero was finally home.

  OUT OF THE WILDERNESS

  Our King is loving and merciful, always ready to lead us home.

  Since Hero has come home, his amazing account has continued to roll like a healing wave across this nation. On the following Christmas Day, his miraculous story of survival was featured on the front page of the largest newspaper in Oregon. Amid the flood of well-wishing cards, e-mails, letters, and phone calls, one seemed to sum up what a great number expressed. It came in a legal-size envelope with no return address or identification. It contained only a small note, which read, “I was thinking of ending it all. Then I read about Hero—and changed my mind. Because he didn’t give up, I won’t. Thank you.”

  My little Hero is only a tiny reflection of my real hero: Jesus Christ.

  It is Christ alone who is the true champion. He walked through the wasteland of death itself. Jesus is the only One who chose to come into my unique wilderness of sorrow. Out of love, He did it for me, and He has done it throughout history for every soul who ever turned to Him: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

  Jesus is the only One who laid down His life as the bridge of hope by which we can escape our wasteland of pain and enter His joy.

  The choice to cross that bridge is left to every soul. We can opt to stay in our wilderness and be frustrated, angry, negative, self-justified, and sorrowful. Or we can reach out to the hand that has always reached for ours and cross the bridge of His mercy into His presence, His love, His redemption, and His freedom: “If you wander beyond the teaching of Christ, you will not have fellowship with God. But if you continue in the teaching of Christ, you will have fellowship with both the Father and the Son” (2 John verse 9).

  At some point each of us will face tremendous heartache. It’s especially during these times of wandering through the backwoods of despair that we must seek our Lord’s mercy. His desire is that we give our burdens to Him. Yet inexplicably, we often try to carry them ourselves.

  Why do we willingly step into and inhabit this place when the Lord has clearly marked a path by which we can escape? It’s true; life can be hard, but our hearts don’t have to be. Life can be burdensome and dark, but our attitudes don’t have to be. Life can be sad, but because our joy is not founded in the things of this world, we don’t have to be.

  The first kid to ride Hero was a fifteen-year-old girl named Heather. “I’ve endured great suffering in my
life,” Heather says. “Many times I gave up trusting in people, and I nearly gave up trusting in God. At times I thought nobody cared or understood. But then Hero came along, and he did understand. Those he put his trust in betrayed him. He could’ve just lain down and died, something I’ve often longed to do. But he didn’t. He kept going and going, and when he couldn’t go any longer, God rescued him. I just want to cry when I think about my friendship with Hero. He reminds me of what Jesus did for me, and because of that, I talk to Jesus all the time now. Jesus has transformed my life and become my best friend. I’ve chosen to live my life for Him. I will always love Hero because he’s a reminder of this gift.”

  What I’ve come to realize about our wilderness times is that no matter who we are or what we’re suffering, every wilderness has a name—and it’s been the same name throughout the ages. The name of every wasteland we will ever experience is called choice. Not because we have chosen it, for none of us can choose or control all our circumstances. But all of us can choose to abide in the peace of Christ through them.

  The truth is that out of His love and mercy, Christ gave His life for us so that we could live. He didn’t lay down His life only to abandon us. On the contrary, “The LORD is a shelter for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble. Those who know your name trust in you, for you, O LORD, have never abandoned anyone who searches for you” (Psalm 9:9–10).

  Even if we’re discarded by those who promised to fill our lives with love, the Lord Himself vows to always be with us, no matter what wilderness we find ourselves lost within: “Even if my father and mother abandon me, the LORD will hold me close” (Psalm 27:10).