The Phoenix

When I was fourteen years old, I rode thunder. The power beneath me when I sat on that mare was addicting. Owning such a beast, such a beautiful, strong, yet delicate animal was a heady feeling. But oh so delicate.

We lost her only a year or so after we got her. The exact time matters not. The feelings I had for that horse were eternal. She was pregnant, but the delivery went wrong. We loaded her up on the truck to the ER vet that morning and I said goodbye to my dream.

I don’t remember much of that day, that long, long day where I waited for news. I remember my dad telling me that Willemien would be fine. I didn’t think it was true, and I know he meant to comfort, but it felt like a lie. I remember waiting, pacing the house, unable to think. I remember my mom coming home, and telling me. “Willemien is gone. We had to put her to sleep, honey, I’m so sorry.” I remember the first words I thought to say, the words that tore themselves out of my throat, seemingly out of nowhere, the scream of despair.

“God hates me!”

I don’t know if I believed it or not. It took me some time to come to terms with my loss. I couldn’t understand why God would have allowed something I loved so much to be taken from me. Relatives gathered around me, called me, prayed for me. They were concerned about what I’d said. I suffered from the loss of my precious horse along with what seemed like the loss of God.

It took time to heal, but the same God who I felt had abandoned me helped me through. And when I was 15, he gave me a gift. It was another horse, red where the other was black. Dainty and fiery where the other was sturdy and powerful.

I remember the day we went to see him. His owner had been having trouble with him. He was misbehaving in the arena. He didn’t want to walk and trot in circles. He didn’t want to have his head tied down to his stirrups. He didn’t want to wear that heavy western saddle that rested right on his withers. She’d been asking $400 for him. She told him if we came with a trailer, she’d let him go for $100.

He was a little brown horse, covered in sweat. She’d been lunging him to ‘take the edge off’ before we arrived. I rode him in the arena. The owner wouldn’t let me out of arm’s reach, so fearful she was that he would hurt me. It was like riding a coal. One moment glowing, the next nearly dead. He would stop and start, confused and upset. I couldn’t tell what sort of horse he was, or what sort of horse he could be.

I got off him. We asked the owner if we could ride him out of the arena. She offered to ride him herself. We agreed. She opened the gate, and rode him through. He stopped, confused, faltering. Did she really want him to ride out, off down that path to the grass and the sky? He burned, brighter. He stepped forward. He glowed. He realized what she was asking and he strutted out with a spirited walk. The coal had been blown into flame. He was beautiful.

The owner walked him back to the barn looking down at the dirt. She didn’t know if we wanted him. She assumed he’d performed too badly once again. My mom looked at me, and I nodded. I’d seen that drab little horse turn into a prancing red flame. “We want him.”

The owner looked at us incredulously. She helped load him into the trailer. She gave us his registration papers. She waved goodbye. She didn’t understand us. She didn’t understand him.

I brushed him, I took him on walks, and I loved him. Eventually, I rode him. My mare had been like riding thunder. This was like riding a flame. He left the ashes of his old life behind him with joy. Reborn, we cantered together across the waving grass, wended our way through the woods, trod new paths. There were hard times, times we didn’t understand each other, things he expected me to know that I didn’t. But we persevered. God had given me a gift. Not a perfect gift. A gift that had to be worked at, loved, and polished to really shine. Like my faith.

Together, my horse and I moved forward. We left our death behind us, and together we became something new. My horse blossomed and my faith began to shine. He rose from the ashes and I flew with him. I named him Phoenix.

End note:
My mother suggested his name, with the metaphor of the rebirth of the mythical Phoenix in mind. It was also an acknowledgment for my love for books and fantasy, with a nod to Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. All credit goes to her.

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