God Heals

See this beautiful boy? We are going through a bit of a crisis right now.

He and I have been in ministry together for six years now. He has taught me so much, about being a good leader, about patience and trust, about looking for the try, about facing fear and being courageous. I have taught him far less. And together, we have, by God's grace, reached out to hurting people to bring them joy and hope and healing.

It has been an amazing six years. Over and over, I have watched in amazement as God has used this big, beautiful, gentle and patient horse, and a far more stubborn, impatient fool of a human being to reach out to hearts and souls who are hurting. He has whispered to them, "Do you see how I love you? Do you see how I am gentle in my strength? Do you see how you can trust me?" He has used us to woo them into his fold. It has been a joyride, and Raphi is more than my pet. He is my partner in ministry, the door through which I am permitted to walk into someone else's heartache and sorrow, and that's a sacred place to be.

But now we're going through a bit of a crisis. Over a week ago, Raphi began shaking his head up and down in a most peculiar way. It was as though he were being stung on the face by swarms of bees. He got more and more anxious, shaking his head, rubbing his face on his legs, pacing, hardly able to stand long enough to do more than grab bites to eat and gulps of water to drink. His nose was wrinkled with worry, and his eyes were anxious and distressed. This was not the sweet, placid horse I know. What was wrong?

It seems that Raphi has a condition called photic headshaking. Somehow, sunlight triggers a nerve in his face, which then burns and tingles, making him feel like he is indeed being stung by swarms of bees. It's a reaction similar to the one we humans have when we look into the sun and sneeze. When he is outside, Raphi shakes and rubs and paces. When he is inside, or once the sun sets, or on heavily overcast days, he settles down again. It's a condition that is incurable and often hard to treat. Basically, if a horse has photic headshaking, he needs to be kept out of the light. Which means he needs to stay inside except when it's dark, or he has to wear a mask the whole time he is outside. One that looks something like this:

 It's a freakish thing. It makes him look like a monster or an alien. It covers up those dear, warm, liquid eyes. I'm sure he would not mind wearing it; he's easygoing like that. I know he'd rather wear a mask like that than be cooped up inside all day. But I hate it. He will have to wear it all the time. All. The. Time. Even when I'm working with him. Even when I have students who come out to work with him. Welcome, student. Here is your freaky-bug-eyed therapy horse. No, you can't see his eyes. He's allergic to the sun.

The irony has not escaped me. Here is a horse who is being used to bring students into the light of Christ, and he cannot stand to be in the light. Here is a horse who is being used to introduce hurting women to the Son, and he cannot stand the sun. I have to say that I believe there is strong element of spiritual warfare to this whole thing.

I have been struggling with the notion that maybe Raphi and I were coming to the end of the road. No, I am not going to give up on my horse. I believe that a commitment is to the end, even if it's just an animal.  But maybe I had to accept the fact that our days of ministry were over. Maybe God was closing the door for me on this ministry which has been, for the past six years, my joy and delight. I just didn't know, and it broke my heart. After all, how can I use a horse who cannot be outside except when it is dark or raining? Or how can I use a horse who looks so frightening, when I cannot see his eyes?

So you can use him only if he's perfect?

Pardon?

If you can use him only if he's perfect, what does that say about all the broken and hurting women you work with? What does that say about you? Can you use him only if he's perfect? Are you going to love him only if he's perfect?

Well . . . no . . . . No, of course not. I'm not that shallow! No, I wasn't saying that. But I hate to see him broken! Can't you heal him? Can't you work a miracle, and make my horse able to see the light again? I've been praying for a miracle! Am I supposed to just stop?

Can I not use that which is broken?

Well, yes . . . of course.

Can I not use that which is weak? Is my strength not made perfect in weakness? Is my grace not sufficient?

Well, yes . . . yes, of course, I know it is.

What if my strength will be made even greater in his weakness? What if Raphi can be more effective because he is so obviously broken? What if those who are broken can see in him an image of being strong even in brokenness, and learn to rely on my strength in their weakness?

I dunno. I guess that can happen. No. No, I know that can happen.

Well then, what's the problem? They'll be ok with his brokenness. Are you?

<sigh> I want to be. I love this horse. I'm not going to throw him away just because he's not perfect. But I don't know even how to work with him if I can't see his eyes. He may not be blinded by this, but I am.

Then you're going to have to learn to see in new ways. Aren't you? And maybe, just maybe, you'll become a better horsewoman because of it.

So I'm supposed to stop praying for a miracle?

No, you can keep praying. But quit thinking that this is the end of the road unless you get one.

Trust me.

I've got it.

It's under control.

Raphi may not be able to see, but I can.

Raphael. God heals.

Getting Ready For Winter

It's coming.

It's a perfect late-September day. The sun is shining gloriously outside my windows, and the breeze that is dancing in the branches of the trees is soft and warm. A monarch butterfly is winging its way to Mexico past my office windows. The maple tree is showing the merest hint of the glory of colour that awaits it. The students walking past my office windows are wearing shorts and t-shirts and sandals. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.

It's hard to imagine that in mere weeks, the scene could look very different.

But winter is coming. It's coming, with its days of cold drizzle, deep freezes, slush and mush and muck, mountains of snow to shovel, bitter winds, and thin sunshine that fails to warm anything in its stretched rays.

It's coming.

It's a perfect late-September day. I got up this morning in freedom. I got into my car, and turned on the Christian radio station. I drove to my Bible-college career. I am surrounded by the murmur of soft voices in various classrooms in which the Word of God is being lifted up and studied with joy. It's the beginning of a new semester in a new year, and there is a palpable air of excitement and joy. Everything is warm and free and beautiful.

But when I look carefully, I see signs that winter is coming.

Here, a clerk put into a position where she is forced to choose against her conscience or go to prison.
There, a bus driver who is chastised for refusing to drive a bus painted in a rainbow of colours.
Here, a Christian elementary school being brought before the courts for holding on to a biblical definition of marriage.
There, a Christian university losing accreditation for the same reason.
Here, the comment sections of newspapers being filled more and more with raging anti-religious sentiment (regardless of religion).
There, a politician saying that evangelical Christians are un-Canadian because they hold to a biblical definition of marriage.
Here and there and spreading fast, the threat of religious fundamentalists pledging to spread their influence throughout the world.

It's no surprise, really. We've been told it's coming. But I wonder if I'm ready. What I hear right now are rumours, murmurings, rustlings, grumblings. Nothing too near. It's still easy to push the noise away. The breeze is not so chill yet that it bites me personally. The world of Marianne is still warm and free and beautiful.

But it's coming.

And I wonder if I'm ready.

I feel soft. I feel addicted to my comforts. I am so used to living in a land where I am free to worship how I want, when I want, with whom I want that I can hardly imagine a life where that freedom is stripped away. I can't imagine my school being forced to shut down by one group or another. I can hardly stand to think that Christians may be told that they can no longer broadcast on the airways of our country. And that's only the beginning.

We are told that if we can't "do the job" we shouldn't take the job. So a Christian can't be a city clerk because that job requires her to dispense marriage certificates that she doesn't feel she can do in good conscience.
A Christian can't be a city bus driver because that job may require him to drive a rainbow-coloured bus.
A Christian can't be a politician in certain parties, because he or she is required to be pro-choice to do so.
A Christian can't be a doctor, because he or she is required to either perform or refer people for abortions and euthanasia, even though he or she believes that makes him or her an accessory to murder.
Apparently, a Christian can't even be Canadian.

It's coming. I don't know if I'm ready. I don't know if I can be that brave. I want to be. I'm not talking about loud-mouthed, fighting-back, foaming-at-the-mouth, God-hates-gays militant fundamentalist bravery. I know I could fight. Becoming the loudmouthed fighter would be easy. It would be easy to get angry at those who would steal my freedoms. It would be natural to hate my enemies. It would feel so good to slam the secular-humanist world that is slowly squeezing away my freedoms. All those traits linger dangerously close to the surface in my ugly, sinful human heart.

But am I ready to stand, as Jesus did, silent before my accusers, without fighting back? Am I ready to love my enemies and pray for those who persecute me? It's easy to talk about that when no one is persecuting me, when my only enemies are those who slip into the parking spot ahead of me even though I've got my signal light on. But it's coming. And I don't think I'm ready.

I want to be ready. I want to stand firm in opposition. I want to stand with grace and love before those who hate me because of what I believe. I want to not be surprised or offended at the afflictions I face because of Jesus, but to rejoice that I am counted worthy to suffer for him.

But oh, that requires courage. That requires a level of courage and confidence in Him I know I have never approached.

It is a gloriously warm, sunshiny fall day today, but a wise person reads the signs, and knows that winter is coming, and uses days like today to prepare for the coming cold. It is the fool who ignores the signs and continues to play as though summer will last forever, only to be shocked and dismayed when winter hits.

I have today. I have today to live faithfully and graciously, to walk humbly with my God. I have today to ask him to change my timid and lazy heart, to fill me with courage. I have today to pray for the enemies I know are coming, not for my sake, so that I can maintain my life of ease, but because they so desperately need Jesus.

And then I will trust that when winter hits, I will be ready.

Facing Fear

I fell off my horse this summer. It was back in June, and it was a significant fall. It was the first time I've fallen off and actually injured myself. It was the first time I've fallen off and wondered if I could get up, let alone get back on. I hurt my back and ended up in emergency, worried that I had broken it. Oh, I knew I hadn't severed my spinal cord; after all, I limped my way back to the barn, horse in hand, got into my car, and drove all the way home before going to emergency. But I thought something might be cracked. I had visions of jarring my back again, and completing what the fall from my horse had begun, leaving me a paraplegic. I imagined I would have to sell my horse, and move from my stair-filled home. I was picturing teaching from a wheelchair, trying to learn to drive with hand controls, never again walking the dog. (I have a vivid imagination.) I was in a great deal of pain, hardly able to move from the hurt. On one hand, the pain comforted me, because it meant I could feel. On the other hand, the pain worried me, because I knew that it meant that I had actually done damage.

It scared me.

I've fallen off my horse before, and walked around for a few days with bruises and strained muscles, so the reality of falling is not a new one. I have always known, academically, that horseback riding is a high-risk sport. I've heard of Christopher Reeve. Every once in a while, I hear stories about people who are seriously hurt while working with or riding horses. I don't hear about it often, but I do hear about it. But I've never been afraid of falling. It was part of the reality of riding, and I just figured to get back on and keep going.

But this time, I couldn't get back on. I could hardly walk, let alone get back on. It took me a week of healing to be able to get back on at all, and another week of healing before I could get back on and actually ride. Months later, I can still feel an ache if I ride long or hard.

So I've spent the summer thinking about, and fighting, fear.

In light of this new fear, I've had to make a decision. I could fall and get really hurt. I really could fall and end up a paraplegic or a quadriplegic. Or dead. Is it worth the risk? Sure, I can attempt to mitigate risks and keep myself as safe as possible. I wear a helmet. I don't race, full gallop, across the fields, attempt to leap over stone walls, or transverse raging rivers. But I wasn't doing any of those things when I fell, either. And still I fell and hurt myself. So there are no guarantees. And is it worth the risk?

I haven't been able to fully answer that question yet. But I know this - know it to my toes: life is risky. And if I pull back from this risk, if I decide that this thing that I love, that I have always loved, that has always given me joy and delight, is too risky, then I have begun a journey of pulling back from truly living. I have let fear win. Sure, you say it's a slippery slope, and slippery slopes make for bad arguments, but slippery slopes often reflect a reality. Today, I decide that doing this thing I love is too risky. What do I pull back from tomorrow? What becomes too risky tomorrow?

Because, guaranteed, tomorrow will bring risks.

Risks to love instead of isolating.
Risks to be vulnerable instead of wearing a mask.
Risks to forgive instead of holding a grudge.
Risks to do hard things instead of taking the easy road.
Risks to speak up when what I say may be unpopular.
Risks to stand for Jesus when the world around me howls at the sound of his name.
Risks to remain firm in my faith . . . even if someone threatens my life.

Because that is just as much a possibility as falling off my horse and hurting myself is.

I can't live like that. I can't give even that inch. I can't allow fear to win.

So I've spent the summer getting back on.

And this weekend, I rode back in the field where I fell. You know, it felt good. It felt freeing. Sure, I was nervous. So was my horse. We worked through it. We took the worry seriously, and we dealt with it, but we worked through it, and we rode. And we were both ok. It felt really, really good to be back there again, riding through the fields, surrounded by grasses and good smells and birdsong and sunshine. But mostly, it felt good because it felt freeing. We were putting the fear behind us.

We're not there yet. We've got work to do. It takes time to get over a big scare like that. But we're moving forward, my horse and I. We are reclaiming lost ground.

I don't want to play it safe. I don't want to live fearfully. I want to live with courage. I might fall. I might get hurt. But I can't bear to live any other way. There is too much good that will be missed if I live a cautious, miserly, fearful life.

Is riding worth the risk? I think I think so. But this I know:

Living abundantly is absolutely worth the risk.