When I was a little girl, my father use to take my sister and me riding horses on Saturdays. I was about 7, and Paula was about 10. Every single week, we got to ride the same horses from our local riding stables. Paula got Lightening – the name says it all. Lightening was this rich brown color, with a black mane that flowed in the wind as he galloped through the open fields. He was strong, he was energetic, he was independent. That was Lightening.

My horse’s name was Nell – once again, all in the name. Nell did have 4 legs, and there was a little mane left, but as far as speed goes, a one-year old could toddle faster than Nell could walk. And, she had an attitude problem. She’d be basically well mannered around her handlers and my father back at the stables, but as soon as we got on the trail, she’d have to stop every 10 feet for relief of some sort.  Her most challenging attribute, was when she would go up to a fence or tree and try to push me off.  Every week,  same story.

This was my beginning with the equine population.

When I was in 7th grade, my best friend had a Welsh pony that she just adored. She kept calling him Gelding, which I thought was his name, but later discovered that it was actually his state of being, after having been surgically altered. Every weekend, she’d go ride “Gelding”, and one Saturday, I went with her. Now, friend Karen rode Gelding bareback. They were beauty in motion. They had the same rhythm, the same cadence – they had that special non-verbal communication that only a horse and its master can have. When it came my turn to ride, Karen was insistent that riding bareback was easier than riding in a saddle. Reflecting back, I’m assuming it was easier for her to not have to go through all that to put the saddle on. Karen put her hands in the cupped position to help hoist me upon Gelding, and all was good. All was good until Gelding started to move. I told Karen I felt like I was sliding, and her response was to start giggling. The more I slid on this horse, the harder she laughed. I was afraid to let go because I thought he might step on me, so, with my legs still wrapped around him, I kept sliding around until my head, literally, was down by his front leg. I’m sure the vision was similar to what a baby monkey looks like when it is clutched tightly to its’ mother’s underbelly as she walks through the forest.

Another horse, another laughing friend. Marsha had a breed of sporthorse called a Hanoverian, which was over 17 hands high. In horsespeak, a “hand” represents about 4 inches, and 17 hands is apparently really tall. Marsha was training this horse for the Olympics in a riding event called “Dressage”. She offered to let me take her prized mare for a spin around the corral. I wanted to just stroll around the corral, but apparently, the horse wanted to run it out. The more she galloped, the tighter I held on to the reins and gripped with my knees. As I was screaming to her about how to get this devil’s spawn  to stop, Marsha was hysterically laughing as she was running behind me telling me to quit gripping with my knees because that was making the horse run faster. From an inexperienced horse rider’s perspective, you can understand my dilemma. Finally, as we rounded another curve, the horse took it so quickly that it slung me off, making me fly through the air, and not land with the greatest of ease. Marsha could not pick herself up off the ground because of the humor of the situation.

So I guess it appears that I am not an equestrian. However, what I know is that if I fall off a horse, apparently, I get back on. In the psychology field, I think that is suppose to be an ok trait.

I’m grateful that God continues to give me the desire to keep plowing through tougher times when, at the same time, He’s the one Who is allowing those times, knowing that I will grow more faithful to Him than in times of comfort.

Love, Kim