“I adopted a rescue horse.” I was only mildly surprised not only by the answer itself,  but also the certainty with which I responded. But certain I was. “Not so much because I feel that I saved him, but more so just through what I’ve learned from sharing life with him and walking alongside him.” My breath caught. “He’s been through so much. And the things he has taught me, through his own struggles… The way he has helped to make me stronger when I didn’t think I even had it in me.”

When I recounted my response to that particular question to my grandmother over the phone later that evening, she quipped happily, “Oh I just knew that would be what you’d say.” Perhaps I’m predictable. Or perhaps my pride in my horse and our relationship, with all of its challenges and quirks, has just been that transparent. Either way, when I examined it later, I realized that it was the truest answer I could have given.

It could have been about putting myself through college. Or job advancement. Or even traveling to a third world country on a mission trip, which does remain one of my most cherished memories. And while all of those things have helped to shape who I am, Tuff was still my first thought.  For one, I think it’s because our relationship is still evolving. I’m still learning, being the amateur horsewoman that I am, and he still has gifts to give. But something else occurred to me as I was driving home from the barn the other night. One of the lessons horses can teach us, especially rescue horses, is that sometimes just getting through something is cause enough for celebration. We may not be where we want to be, and we may at times feel stymied by the pain and hurts from our past experiences, but if we stop long enough to breathe in deep and recognize that we did in fact survive that situation…it can be enough. It doesn’t mean we ever stop healing, or moving forward. But at least for me, I know I can get so caught up in trying to understand the why of something that happened or dwelling upon how things didn’t quite go like I hoped, that I forget to count my blessings for the getting through part itself.

Maybe it’s because pain can run deep, leaving us feeling like we’re still in the midst of it, and not on the other side. I imagine this can be true to a certain extent for horses too. Even the instantaneous relief that some of them may feel once being rescued – some of them from death’s doorstep and unfathomable cruelty, which makes my own struggles seem paltry – may be occasionally overshadowed by memories of pain and fear, the sting of which can still be sharp and poignant.

But as I watched my horse happily devour the hay in front of him that evening, seeming a world away from the pain and neglect of his former life, I was reminded of what it means to take joy in the small things. The small victories. You may never forget where you came from, or what you’ve been through, but it’s ok to take delight in the very fact that you’re still here, still pressing on. It may not be as far along as you’d like to be, but there is still comfort in knowing you are right where you’re supposed to be in the process. It’s not something I do well, certainly. But each time I find myself celebrating the small things my horse does (he lifted his right front foot with no hesitation! *insert happy squeal here*), I know that it’s possible.

“In the shelter of your eyes
I have finally learned the song
It took so long to realize
I just can’t make it all alone

Words are only what they say
But this feeling isn’t wrong
I’m so glad I found my way
It’s good to be where I belong…”

- In the Shelter of Your Eyes, Don Williams

I bit my lip and furrowed my brow into the best “I mean business and am serious” expression I could manage. But even as I gave a firm snap of the lead rope after Tuff’s rear leg jerked out of the farrier’s patient hands, Tuff turned his head slightly toward me and I’m pretty sure – no, I’m positive, really – that his eyes twinkled. His eyes softened and so did the knots of tension in my stomach that had just begun intricately weaving together. I bit back a smile so as not to betray the seriousness of my commitment to the farrier to get him to behave and, I can’t be sure, but – I think he may have winked at me.

Bad behavior or not, I can imagine why he resists having his feet handled for long periods of time. Having some of the battle scars that he does, ones that tell of a life filled with pain and challenges, it’s no wonder that he balks at times in wary suspicion. And though the details are missing and his story is largely incomplete, it only takes a moment to remind me of what kind of life he’s had until now. It’s there, just under the surface. Scar tissue that has built up to cover the wounds and hurts of years past. Callouses that seem deadened to the touch, but the cause of which is felt as sharply as when originally inflicted with just the right trigger. If lucky, you have just the vague memory that they are there and only recall their depth on the occasions that life circumstance brings them to the forefront. But the effect may be just the same.

It’s not hard to imagine that this is how it is for my horse. His aloof demeanor sometimes is enough of a reminder for me of what he’s been through. But we’ve been in each others’ lives for almost 6 years now and I sometimes take that history for granted. Although I don’t know the sordid details of his past, those moments of insight are a good reminder to me that the scars are real and the effects profound. My sensitivity to him is heightened as I empathize with my own moments of pain and hurt and I sometimes think we should both have “Handle With Care” labels plastered on our foreheads some days.

But the beauty lies in the fact that the scars are a sign of healing. Layer upon layer of tissue that the body produces to replace “normal” tissue after injury. On the surface an ugly reminder of the wounds we’ve endured, they are yet a visible sign that some healing in fact has taken place. I know Tuff and I both have a ways to go in our process and relationship- at times misunderstanding one another, taking things for granted. But it’s a journey we both continue to take – each in our own ways and time, yet able to learn from and motivate each other. And the more time I spend with him, the more I know that he is absolutely in my life for a reason. I only hope to be able to reciprocate that knowledge and reassurance.

I can think of few more gratifying things in life than when someone you love responds with great joy at seeing you again.  Living a couple of thousand miles away from family, as I do, can facilitate that.  And even on a daily basis, I’m accustomed to the happy tail wagging of my dog (as coonhounds are expressive characters by their very goofy nature) and the annoyed yet relieved chatter of my cat when I walk in the door.  It’s good for the heart.  I am not accustomed to such a reception by my horse, whose stoic and proud demeanor keeps him from revealing any overt loyalty or affection.  So it was especially gratifying – and may have contributed to the delighted laugh that escaped my own lips – when I walked up to his paddock the other day and his head snapped to attention and he broke into a brisk jog to meet me at the gate.  For a rescue horse who has struggled with soundness issues, this jog was kind of a big deal.  (Editor’s note: I will reluctantly confess now that I was holding his feed bucket and two flakes of hay at the time, but I’m quite certain he hadn’t even *seen* that yet.  So don’t steal my joy please). 

If I can hold on to that moment, when my horse eagerly trotted up to me, and know what it really represents — ok, yes, he wanted dinner, but more so that he equated me, a human who based on his history he has little reason to trust, with something good and loving – then it’s enough motivation to keep going.  It’s easy to let outside voices and disheartening life experiences talk us out of fulfilling our call.  People who don’t understand your passion, who don’t think you’re capable… none of that can take away from the good you can do. 

It’s easy to let that self doubt and worry creep in.  Prone to semi-chronic worrying anyway, I can come up with a myriad of reasons why something this simple – and inevitable – is “scary.”  As I led Tuff out of his stall tonight for an evening stroll around the property, I heard the high pitched, desperate whinny of the young colt in the stall next to him.  He was missing his friend.  After grinning widely at how darn cute it was, I realized that he sounded just like me.  Not because of the frenzied whinny, but in the desperate and panicked cries of someone experiencing a sudden shift out of the comfortable – or at least the familiar – into the unknown.  I do it all the time.  Because no matter how much I may need that change – in all its nerve-wracking, nail-biting newness – I still balk and question whether or not I’ll really be able to handle it, or it will really be good for me.

A lot of the horses at PHH are in desperate need of a new beginning.  Their scars and wounds sometimes long remain visible to the eye.  But their resilience in spite of those hurts is astounding.  And that gives me courage.  One often has to dig through those old hurts  and glance occasionally at those scars to be reminded of why they have to keep moving forward, no matter how scary and lonely it may feel.  Isn’t it funny how easy it is for us humans to settle into a place that may not at all be good for us, but because it’s what we know, it’s just easier to stay put?  At least horses seem to understand the concept of no turning back.

I led Tuff back into the barn and smiled as the little colt shoved his nose out of his stall in relieved greeting to his friend.  But the truth is, he had stopped whinnying before we even got back.  He may not have liked the change, he may have resisted and worried over it, but he survived.  I guess there’s something for me to learn there too.

**Note: One of the best resources Tuff and I have had on our journey in the last couple of years is the service of our farrier, Shane Westman.  Committed to the care and well-being of each horse, he has taken on Tuff’s special needs case with a brave face.  He and his wife have a dynamic duo business together and I encourage you to check them out: http://westmanequine.com.  Shane, I tip my proverbial hat to you, good sir.

I write a lot about some of the dark and sad places from which he and I have both arisen – often, with each other.  And even at the risk of sounding like a somber pessimist about humanity, it’s the thing I keep coming back to - life with this horse is truly different.  There’s something unexplainable about him and the effect he has on me.  So I sit here, trying to type it out so that others can begin to understand the place he holds in my heart, and I feel inept and speechless.  But I want to share it – I want people to know what it’s like to be literally changed by a “mere four-legged creature.”  That, in spite of my occasional (or perhaps frequent) horse ineptitude, he and I have an unspoken understanding of each other’s limitations and it makes us a better match than what the more trained and sophisticated eye can see.  I believe he lets me fumble my way through life with him because somehow he knows my heart.

So in spite of my silent declarations that even this gentle and beautiful horse could not penetrate the wall I’d put up, he did.  But as tears mixed with the dust in his soft fur, I was overcome with gratitude.  Grateful to have him in my life, grateful that  he stood so perfectly still while I let my emotions and hurts get the best of me, and grateful that he let me in.  His life – although I know little of the details – was anything but easy.  He bears the scars of a life of misuse and, as several trainers who worked with him have told me, likely abuse.  I think we ended up together not just because of my soft pushover heart, but because he had something to give to and share with me.

I am grateful.  He has already made an incredible difference in my life – a saving grace when hurts are all around.  I can only hope that I return a fraction of it to him.  If nothing else, that horse sure is loved.  The long, slow exhalation he let out while I wrapped my arms around his neck that day told me that he at least has an idea.

“What a difference you’ve made in my life…you’re my sunshine day and night.  Oh, what a difference you’ve made in my life.  What a change you have made in my heart, what a change you have made in my heart.  You replaced all the broken parts…oh, what a change you  have made in my heart.”  - What a Difference You’ve Made in my Life, Ronnie Milsap