This is my horse:
Raphi's a bit of a sage and a philosopher. He thinks much and acts slowly. He's clever and quickly bored, but also a little shy and easily overwhelmed by demands and expectations. And when he gets overwhelmed like that, he disappears somewhere inside, and stands with hooded eyes and tight lips, like he's trying to make himself small enough to disappear. Raphi has taught me much about finding the try.
You see, I'm much more goal-oriented than he is. I'm about the task; he's about the relationship. I'm about the final outcome; he's about the process in getting there. So when I spend time with Raphi, I have a goal in mind: this is what I want to accomplish in the next hour. If I'm not careful, I can quickly destroy the process and damage the relationship. I can convince him that I am a predator and he is my prey, and I can cause him to fear me and mistrust me. Which is not my goal at all.
It's not that I can't set goals with my horse, and I have to drift along and accept whatever may happen. If I did that, I'd never make any progress, and neither would he. Simply being in proximity doesn't make much of a relationship. No, I do set goals. But what I have had to learn is how to find the minute victories that add up to my final goal, and reward him for every small step. I have had to learn to find the try.
So let's say I want to teach Raphi to step over an obstacle in his path. Every instinct is telling him that this is not safe. He's claustrophobic, and that obstacle is blocking his way should a tiger sneak up behind him and try to kill him and eat him. He's unfamiliar with that obstacle, and it could be a tiger just lying in wait to kill him and eat him. Or, it could be hiding a tiger which will leap up and kill him and eat him. The obstacle could be blocking a hole into which he'll fall and be trapped so that a tiger can come along and kill him and eat him. (Yes, he really thinks this way. It's part of being a horse.) He is pretty sure it's best that he just avoid the obstacle altogether. But I know that there will be times in his life when he will face obstacles, and he won't be able to go around them or avoid them. He'll just have to face them and go over them, and I know he'll be perfectly safe doing so even if he's not so sure. I have to ask him to trust me enough to face the obstacle.
So I ask him to go up to the obstacle. He gets to within 10 feet of it, and he leaps back, head flung high, nostrils flaring, blasting air, eyes wild, ears pitching forward and back. Tiger! Tiger! Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, I'm gonna die! What do I do? Do I get mad at him because he didn't do what I wanted? Do I smack him and scold him and tell him he's stupid for reacting that way over a silly log on the ground, when, so far, that's all he knows? Many people do. If I try that, I'll just convince him he's right, that the log is dangerous, and I'll never get him near it. I'm just going to wait a moment for him to calm down. We're not going to walk away from obstacle, but we're not going closer. We're just going to hang out here, until he calms down. And when he calms down, we walk away for a few moments. We don't see the failure to get over the obstacle. We find the try. He tried to be brave.
Then we come back and face the obstacle again. This time, he gets to within 5 feet of it before he simply refuses to go forward. His head is high, his ears are pitching, and his eyes are frightened, but he stands. It's a try. We wait until he starts to relax, and then walk away. We don't see the failure to get over the obstacle. We find the try. He got closer.
Third time around. He might get his feet up to it, and put his nose over it.
Fourth time around. He might shift his weight to lift a front foot.
Fifth time around. He might lift his foot and actually paw at the log.
Eventually, he'll lift a foot and place it over the log, and it will be the bravest thing he's ever done.
One step at a time, one try at a time, every step asking him to get just a little closer to the final goal, and he will get over the log. More importantly, he'll learn that I'm not going to give him more than he can handle, and he'll learn that he can trust me to be patient and kind and to help him be brave. Next time, he'll trust more readily, learn faster, face his fears with more confidence.
As I watch my horse struggle, I am so often reminded of myself. I wonder if I am as patient with myself when I face obstacles. Do I find the try? Do I recognise that I am closer to the obstacle than I was the last time? Do I celebrate the little steps which add up to big steps, or do I only see failure because I'm not leaping clear just yet? Surely, if I can be patient with my horse, I can be patient with myself as I press on toward the goal.
As I watch my horse learn to trust me, I am so often reminded of my relationship with Jesus. I used to think God was standing over me with a rod of discipline, beating me over an obstacle and berating me for my fear. He has whispered to my heart, "Marianne, if you can be patient with your horse, don't you think I can be patient with you? If you understand your horse's fear, do you not think I understand your fears? If you can rejoice in your horse's small victories, do you not think I rejoice in the same way over yours?" I am learning that I might be about the task, but Jesus is about the relationship. I might be about the final goal, but he is working in the process. Is there a final goal? Of course. But God will take my lifetime to get me there. He's not going to flog me forward. The process has value of its own.
This is me and my horse:
He's a splendid fellow. He's teaching me about trust, and about facing our obstacles together.
"For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathise with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are--yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:14-15).
