Taking Steps
"Easy baby, don't move, " I coax as I crouch behind the hocks of a well-built chestnut mare. The toes of my boots twist and grind into the mud and gravel as I try to find the best position to access her heel without putting my face directly within kicking range. Although, who am I kidding? a horse can kick basically anything within 5 feet of it, on any side. Doesn't matter where my head is, as long as I'm this close. The key is to be gentle and careful.
She's been hurt, this mare. Somehow she got a rope caught around her left pastern and before she was able to break loose, it friction burned a deep gouge through her hair and skin. The wound, left dirty, has crusted over and now looks and smells awful. I am well within gagging and kicking range, but the mare knows I'm trying to help her. She stands gingerly, trying to hold still as my hand reaches out to hold her fetlock steady.
"Good girl," I murmur just loud enough for her to hear, as I examine the infected scab. She's listening, her ears cocked down and back at me. The pain must be intense for her; I can feel heat and inflammation radiating from the joint. The whole scab will have to be torn off and the wound scrubbed raw in order for it to begin healing. This mare is far too lovely to lose a foot and her life. I mentally leaf through the other staff members and realize with a burst of joy that I'm the only one who will want this job. She is mine.
I stand cautiously, laying a hand on her flank, and then step away and turn back into the barn, heading for the tack room. The sleepy smell of sweet feed embraces me as I enter the dusty room. Metal and rubber bins full of grain line the wall, and shelves carrying old cracked leather tack hang above. The air is hazy with dust from the hay loft above, and the bare light bulb dimly shines through a coat of dust and cobwebs.
Thick webs brush the back of my hand as I reach for the can of Wonder Dust, antibiotic cream and a giant toothbrush. I know Delta won't immediately appreciate what I'm about to do, but I can't help but feel the excitement rising in my chest. I get to doctor a horse! Ever since I was a girl reading James Herriot's stories of veterinarian work in Great Britain, I have longed to help hurt animals.
When I return to the fresh air under the sun, Delta looks back at me curiously. I've already washed her down and dusted her other three feet with lime to keep the ticks off. She doesn't know what I'm going to do, but she trusts me enough to hold still as I pick up her foot and cradle then hoof in my left hand. I've got the water hose in my other hand, and having soaked her scab for a couple of minutes, I brace her hoof on my knee and start picking at the rough and thick scab. Delta immediately picks up her foot and sets it on the ground, shifting away from me. I follow her, speaking softly, and take her foot again. She can't know how afraid I am. I know this hurts her and I know she could absolutely kill me if she wanted to. But I know she needs help. So I try again. And again.
Every time she moves, I move with her, talking to her, touching her as much as I can.
"Delta, come on, honey... I know it hurts. You gotta let me do this. Hold still for me."
And eventually she stops moving away and lets me pick the whole scab off her wound. Now the white, swollen flesh surrounding raw red is exposed to the air. I start to scrub, cleaning dirt, dead skin and infection away. My hands are filthy. My nose is suffering. But I don't even notice because I'm tuned in to the huge animal who is patiently bearing my torturous treatment. She is waiting for deliverance from pain. And I am going on this journey towards healing with her, because I want to.
Soon the wound is clean and I've rubbed ointment into it with a ginger touch. Give it a final squirt of Wonderdust and then let her go. Delta's halter hangs from my blackened fingers as she walks away from the barn and towards the group of other camp horses congregated around a stack of cut square bales.
And I smile in delight as I put away my tools. Yes, I am tired from a long hot day of managing kids and preventing emotional and physical disasters. But this- this chance to touch a life - it rejuvenates my soul. I know I've made a difference in the life of one of God's lovelies and I wouldn't give it up if someone paid me.
Eventually, after weeks of the de-scabbing, scrubbing and anoining Delta's foot, it eventually healed over enough that I didn't need to do anything but surface clean.
It had taken hours from my days, and I knew I wasn't getting paid for any of my work at the barn that summer, but the experience was worth it.
And I learned something valuable about healing. Two things, actually.
1. Healing takes time. For deep wounds, especially those that have seemed to "heal over", it doesn't happen overnight, or even in a week. Soul wounds take even longer to heal, and they fester more the longer they are ignored. Speak your pain and remember, you can't rush healing. It comes at its own pace.
2. The ones you can trust to help you heal are the ones who are willing to give their time and energy to addressing your pain with you and cleaning out your wound. There are only a few people like this in the world, so when you find them, treat them
them well. If someone comes, wanting your wound to go away, without having the strength to feel your pain, accept their best wishes and keep them at a distance. These people are not necessary in your life; in fact, often they will be the ones who create the most trouble for you.
And lastly, healing WILL come in time. It will hurt like crazy, but it will happen if you submit to the process.
She's been hurt, this mare. Somehow she got a rope caught around her left pastern and before she was able to break loose, it friction burned a deep gouge through her hair and skin. The wound, left dirty, has crusted over and now looks and smells awful. I am well within gagging and kicking range, but the mare knows I'm trying to help her. She stands gingerly, trying to hold still as my hand reaches out to hold her fetlock steady.
"Good girl," I murmur just loud enough for her to hear, as I examine the infected scab. She's listening, her ears cocked down and back at me. The pain must be intense for her; I can feel heat and inflammation radiating from the joint. The whole scab will have to be torn off and the wound scrubbed raw in order for it to begin healing. This mare is far too lovely to lose a foot and her life. I mentally leaf through the other staff members and realize with a burst of joy that I'm the only one who will want this job. She is mine.
I stand cautiously, laying a hand on her flank, and then step away and turn back into the barn, heading for the tack room. The sleepy smell of sweet feed embraces me as I enter the dusty room. Metal and rubber bins full of grain line the wall, and shelves carrying old cracked leather tack hang above. The air is hazy with dust from the hay loft above, and the bare light bulb dimly shines through a coat of dust and cobwebs.
Thick webs brush the back of my hand as I reach for the can of Wonder Dust, antibiotic cream and a giant toothbrush. I know Delta won't immediately appreciate what I'm about to do, but I can't help but feel the excitement rising in my chest. I get to doctor a horse! Ever since I was a girl reading James Herriot's stories of veterinarian work in Great Britain, I have longed to help hurt animals.
When I return to the fresh air under the sun, Delta looks back at me curiously. I've already washed her down and dusted her other three feet with lime to keep the ticks off. She doesn't know what I'm going to do, but she trusts me enough to hold still as I pick up her foot and cradle then hoof in my left hand. I've got the water hose in my other hand, and having soaked her scab for a couple of minutes, I brace her hoof on my knee and start picking at the rough and thick scab. Delta immediately picks up her foot and sets it on the ground, shifting away from me. I follow her, speaking softly, and take her foot again. She can't know how afraid I am. I know this hurts her and I know she could absolutely kill me if she wanted to. But I know she needs help. So I try again. And again.
Every time she moves, I move with her, talking to her, touching her as much as I can.
"Delta, come on, honey... I know it hurts. You gotta let me do this. Hold still for me."
And eventually she stops moving away and lets me pick the whole scab off her wound. Now the white, swollen flesh surrounding raw red is exposed to the air. I start to scrub, cleaning dirt, dead skin and infection away. My hands are filthy. My nose is suffering. But I don't even notice because I'm tuned in to the huge animal who is patiently bearing my torturous treatment. She is waiting for deliverance from pain. And I am going on this journey towards healing with her, because I want to.
Soon the wound is clean and I've rubbed ointment into it with a ginger touch. Give it a final squirt of Wonderdust and then let her go. Delta's halter hangs from my blackened fingers as she walks away from the barn and towards the group of other camp horses congregated around a stack of cut square bales.
And I smile in delight as I put away my tools. Yes, I am tired from a long hot day of managing kids and preventing emotional and physical disasters. But this- this chance to touch a life - it rejuvenates my soul. I know I've made a difference in the life of one of God's lovelies and I wouldn't give it up if someone paid me.
Eventually, after weeks of the de-scabbing, scrubbing and anoining Delta's foot, it eventually healed over enough that I didn't need to do anything but surface clean.
It had taken hours from my days, and I knew I wasn't getting paid for any of my work at the barn that summer, but the experience was worth it.
And I learned something valuable about healing. Two things, actually.
1. Healing takes time. For deep wounds, especially those that have seemed to "heal over", it doesn't happen overnight, or even in a week. Soul wounds take even longer to heal, and they fester more the longer they are ignored. Speak your pain and remember, you can't rush healing. It comes at its own pace.
2. The ones you can trust to help you heal are the ones who are willing to give their time and energy to addressing your pain with you and cleaning out your wound. There are only a few people like this in the world, so when you find them, treat them
them well. If someone comes, wanting your wound to go away, without having the strength to feel your pain, accept their best wishes and keep them at a distance. These people are not necessary in your life; in fact, often they will be the ones who create the most trouble for you.
And lastly, healing WILL come in time. It will hurt like crazy, but it will happen if you submit to the process.
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