Fierce Beauty Read online

  Grooming a quiet horse was an appropriate job for a girl projecting such emotional weakness. I chose Teva, an amiable palomino-mustang cross. This docile mare had a gentle nature and was the smallest horse on the ranch.

  After tying Teva in a semiprivate area, I retrieved a brush bucket. Standing side by side, Angela and I began to groom our placid mare. Trying to open the door between us, I asked Angela many simple questions. Her answers were brief and emotionless. During our minimal conversation, I was surprised to learn that she was sixteen. She was so tiny she could’ve easily passed for a twelve-year-old.

  With brush in hand I continued to explore my new friend. After each of my gentle inquiries, she politely answered with a voice even smaller than her stature.

  “Do you live in Bend?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Has your family lived in the area for very long?”

  She thought for a moment. “Well … not really.” I sensed this question exposed a conflict.

  “Do you live with your mom and dad?” I gently prodded.

  “Well, I used to live with my mom … but we got in a fight, and she kicked me out.” Her deep brown eyes never left Teva as she continued to brush.

  My heart clenched with concern. “Baby, where are you living now?”

  Angela’s hesitation alerted me that I was getting close to her wounding. I glanced at her smooth, dark face and noticed a tightening between her brows. Without looking up, she replied, “My best friend invited me to live with her. It was okay for a while. I liked it a lot … until her husband tried to have sex with me. I knew that wasn’t right, so I left. I moved in with some other people … but I can tell they don’t really want me.” She paused for a moment as if to convince herself again that this was really happening. “I don’t know … I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

  I felt so heavy, so deflated by what this little girl was going through. I reeled back to the days when I was sixteen and all the things I worried about. Being homeless certainly wasn’t one of them! Without thinking, I stumbled on. “Girl, what about your dad? Can you live with him?” Hoping to add emphasis to my compassion, I turned to look at her.

  I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next.

  Angela placed her left hand on Teva’s golden back to steady herself. She took a deep breath and, just for an instant, closed her eyes. Like ice trying to withstand more pressure than its brittle surface can bear, my little glass girl was cracking beneath the weight of her emotions.

  Angela’s dark lashes fell as her gaze plummeted. Her beautiful brown face paled as if overshadowed by ghosts she wanted to conceal. She fought for control. I watched her tiny nostrils flare repeatedly, proclaiming that tears were imminent. Her physical reaction warned me that what was about to cross her lips was intensely painful.

  In that moment my prayer was little more than Jesus … wisdom!

  The brush in Angela’s right hand began to shake. She glanced at me briefly to see if I’d noticed. I had. It was over, and she knew it. Her attempt to hide had failed. Now all that was left was an emotionally exposed little girl standing in an unknown land before an unknown woman.

  She was naked, alone, and collapsing.

  By daring for a moment to reveal her pain, she risked her tenuous sense of security on the rare chance I might care. Taking that fleeting chance, she looked up into my face. The moment her eyes found mine, a charge of emotion arced between us like a banshee current leaping toward a grounding rod.

  On being seen—really seen—she drew in a gasp. While holding her gaze for an instant, I watched her lower lip begin to tremble while her huge brown eyes filled with liquid glass.

  Just as quickly, her gaze broke away. Apparently not knowing where to turn, she rotated back toward the horse. Staring at nothing, she continued brushing mechanically. Silent tears streaked down her flawless cheeks. Gathering together under her chin, fluid sorrow dropped without herald and vanished forever into the earth beneath us. In that moment I wondered how many other tears had fallen. How often had she held herself and cried alone in her prison of sorrow, hidden from the sight of all?

  Hoping that a quiet moment would draw Angela out, I said nothing and continued brushing shoulder to shoulder with her. After several deep breaths she began to gather herself. She ran the back of her slender hand under her jaw and swept away the remaining droplets that gave witness to the depth of her grief.

  It was time.

  With one more heavy breath, Angela steeled herself by resting both hands on Teva’s sturdy body. “I cannot live with my dad,” she began, “because last year my two brothers, my grandmother, and my dad … were all killed.”

  From anyone else’s viewpoint I’m sure we made an endearing sight—two friends brushing a golden mare under a late afternoon sun. Yet the moment was anything but endearing.

  I felt as if I’d just been crushed by a wrecking ball! My first recognizable thought was a stammering, Lord … I don’t know what to say! My throat tightened. Lord … I don’t know how to comfort her.

  Rising from the stillness that enveloped us, a small voice rang in my heart like a bell on a cold day. Though spoken with softness, its proven authority reverberated within my chest. Yes, child, you do! Your words of comfort will be as natural as your own breath. You have not only felt this comfort; you have lived it. Tell her of the healing that I have accomplished in your life. Tell her what I have done for you.

  My gaze rested on the distant horizon. Beset by an unexpected whirlwind of memories, I was carried back to my childhood. Suddenly I was the little raven-haired girl struggling to survive a murderous attack of sorrow, confusion, and hopelessness. Looking down as if from an angel’s view, I saw through the fallow tree branches a child writhing in the tilled soil below. Her small hands desperately clenched fistfuls of dirt in an effort to hold on to the hands of the beloved parents she’d lost. Facedown, she sobbed, screamed, coughed, and wretched. Wailing the name of the only One who could save her, she cried, “Jesus, Jesus, help me!”

  With that simple plea the Lord of All descended through time and space and knelt beside a breaking child. Once I was just like the waif who stood shivering beside me, a devastated child dying of a broken heart.

  I faced Teva and obeyed my God by simply speaking and trusting Him to provide the words. “Oh, Angela, I’m sorry. So sorry. But, baby girl, I’m moved that you came to the ranch today … and I’m especially glad that you’re with me. Out of all those who are here today, I’m quite certain I’m the only one who can honestly say I know how you feel. And you know something, girl? I can tell you from experience that you’re going to be okay. I know that it doesn’t seem like it right now … but you’re going to make it through this.”

  I turned and looked directly into Angela’s eyes. “Wanna hear how I know?”

  If a look could be an action, her eyes were on their knees, pleading for an answer.

  “On the day that my parents died, I was so devastated I didn’t think I could live another minute. And in my grief I cried out to Jesus for help. What I now know is the Lord of All took the little hand that was reaching out to Him … and He’s never let go. Not then, not now, not ever. Since I asked Jesus to help me, He’s never stopped helping me. Even though there were times when I felt alone, I never was … because from that day He’s never left me.”

  I held Angela’s gaze and allowed a knowing smile to slowly cross my lips. In my memory our places were again reversed. Now I was the desperate child looking up into the wrinkled, kind face of my grandmother. Suddenly I was following her, carrying a basket of wet laundry to the clothesline. With practiced care she hung each soggy item to dry in the backyard. Looking down at me, she said with conviction, “We’re going to make it through this. You’ll see.” Perhaps because of the way she said it, I believed her. I didn’t realize I was crying until she gently took the basket out of my arms, laid it aside, and scooped me into a hug. Grandmother and granddaughter wept together as damp laundry wafted aroun
d us in the warm breeze.

  Though grieving herself over the loss of her daughter, my grandmother never lost sight of what she could do to help. She knew we had already lost enough. Without flinching, she and my grandfather chose to keep my two older sisters and me together as a family.

  My grandma was the vibrant life ring that Jesus tossed out to save three little girls. Beth Everest, known to me and my sisters as “Mimi,” was five feet of concrete poured into selfless, loving hands and feet. In a time of great sorrow, she looked beyond her own grief and wounding and saw the wounded. Her focus didn’t reside on herself but on what she could do. And what Jesus did through her saved my life.

  During many a summer’s twilight, we sat together on the cement steps that led into our home. With a bucket of peas between us, we’d shell them into large bowls that we had balanced between our knees. This was our special time to talk. Sometimes while shelling we counted the bats that flew out of a magnificent oak tree in the front pasture. Sometimes we laughed at the giant toads that dined on the bugs that fell from an old light bulb by the front door. Sometimes Mimi talked late into the evening, telling me stories of how she loved my grandfather, how she loved my mom, and how she loved me. In my vast desert of despair, her unfailing love was my oasis of hope.

  Mimi was not perfect, but she was my hero. She realized how deeply this child loved horses. In one bold decision she bought a small horse for me. My life was never the same after that. What I’ve since learned is that a good horse will intuitively take you where you often cannot go on your own—yet where you most need to go.

  It was on the back of a small horse with crooked front legs that I felt safe, that I felt loved, and that I fell in love with Jesus. Firefly, my little roan mare, became the refuge where my broken heart discovered the healing redemption of my Lord—all because a grandmother purchased a horse for her granddaughter. The impact of this single choice rings through my life to this day. This day …

  Angela’s eyes were riveted to mine, her lips slightly parted, silently imploring me to continue.

  “What should have destroyed me,” I said, “Jesus turned around, and with His love He gave me life … and not just me. Look around you. Look at all the kids in this place.” Her eyes drifted momentarily, then locked back on mine.

  “In His timing Jesus is the only One who can transform our pain into something amazing, something beautiful,” I said. “He is the only One who can take our jagged scars and transform them into beauty marks for His glory. Pain can either destroy or define. Angela, we don’t have to be destroyed by our pain. In Jesus’ hands how we grow through our pain can define us. In time the healing from our own brokenness can be so powerful, so complete, that we can actually help lead the way for others to know the same healing from God that has been extended to us. Baby, if Jesus can do this for me, He can do it for you too.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, Angela’s words flowed like a river bursting through an earthen dam. With laughter and tears we spoke freely of life and death and much in between. When it was time for her to go, I hugged her tight and kissed both of her cheeks. Angela thanked me for everything. With shining eyes she exclaimed that because of our conversation, she had some new ideas she was really excited about.

  As this tiny girl walked down the driveway, I thought again of my grandmother, so similar in stature. Mimi may have been small, but her determination to fight for me and my future was immeasurably huge. She gave me hope, a reason to live when I needed it most. I prayed that Jesus would find someone to do the same for the young woman I’d just met.

  Near the bottom of the driveway, Angela turned to look back at me one more time. Her beautiful brown face spread into a glorious smile.

  My heart warmed as I smiled back. Maybe, I thought, He already has.

  WARRIORS OF HOPE

  A true warrior understands that every pain and scar—when placed in the hands of the King—has great purpose. The Lord calls us to grow through our suffering and fight for those without hope.

  It’s an amazing truth that out of our King’s great mercy, He delivers us through our suffering so that our past hurts can heal others’ futures.

  Everyone will know suffering. When we’re crushed by pain, if we cry out to Jesus, He comforts us. He offers His healing compassion in such abundance that we can actually give His comfort to those around us who are going through similar hardships. Every instance of pain we experience in this life is an opportunity to grow a deeper reliance on God’s peace, comfort, and strength. Every moment of suffering can make us grow stronger. Every time we walk through our pain, it deepens the confidence we have in our King to deliver us through any circumstance for our growth and His glory.

  A wise friend once shared guidelines she considers when faced with a difficult or painful challenge:

  Does God know about it? (Yes. He’s God.)

  If God knows about it, has He allowed it? (Yes. He’s God.)

  If God knows about it and has allowed it in my life, how does He wish for me to grow through it? (Fill in the answer.)

  If God knows about it and has allowed it in my life because I need to grow in this specific area, am I going to trust my King—whether I understand this painful circumstance or not—and obediently step forward in faith, knowing that His best plan is to give me a “future and a hope” (Jeremiah 29:11)?

  Our King loves us so much. He gives each of us His mantle of grace when we go through difficult times. It is His great design that through our difficult seasons, we will see Him as He truly is—the One who supplies our every need, the One who holds us up by His righteous right hand, the One who suffered death so we would know His life—and be able to share that life with those who are hurting.

  When I was lost and felt wounded beyond repair, the Lord used my grandmother to give me refuge and a new beginning. When everything was taken from me, she provided a home, family, love, and encouragement. Any influence I’ve had on the lives of others through the ranch, my testimony, and my relationships would not have been possible without my Mimi. When I had none, she gave me hope.

  Many years later I had the privilege of helping to return the favor. I had already received Christ on the day I took my grandmother by the hand and led her down the long aisle to the front of our church. It was there, together, that we knelt and prayed for her to receive the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Because she led me to hope, I was able to lead her to the Author of hope.

  Scripture says, “In his kindness God called you to his eternal glory by means of Jesus Christ. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation” (1 Peter 5:10).

  When we choose to answer the call of our Lord, we become like a bow in His hands. A bow is useful only when it’s drawn. It’s the drawing, the ability to handle tension, that gives a bow its value. With a little draw, there is little release. Yet each time we submit to God, we expand our trust and faith and grow more flexible, resilient, and strong. Over time we are able to flex into a full draw and know His full release. The bigger the draw, the farther our arrows fly for Him. The farther they fly, the greater the impact we make on the hearts of those around us who need help.

  Trust yourself to your King. Rest in knowing your every scar is purposed for His glory. Choose to become a bow in His hands. You’ll discover that as you fight for His hope and truth, He will never fail you.

  17

  THE RACE

  Don’t You Ever Quit!

  Many years of ski racing had brought me to an exciting pinnacle: I had qualified to compete in the U.S. Olympic Biathlon Team Trials. This unlikely combination of cross-country skate skiing and rifle marksmanship began in Scandinavia. Originating as a practical method of hunting off skis, biathlon also doubled as an effective method of border patrol. Today it’s a challenging sport that blends two contrasting skills.

  The Olympic trials for biathlon were to be held in Anchorage, Alaska. I was excited about spending some time
in this powerful place. Graced with the financial help of several benevolent friends, I was on my way. During my flight I marveled at the vast sea of powdery white mountains below me. Each shouldered the soft, pinkish lavender mantle of winter twilight. During this peaceful interlude, I had time to reflect on my personal journey and the magnificent chain of events that had brought me to this rare finale.

  Unlike the other women I’d be racing with, I would not be vying for a berth on the Olympic team. I was realistic about the fact that I was neither skilled nor experienced enough to compete for our country. But I had qualified to race at this level several years before and wasn’t able to fulfill this dream because I couldn’t afford it. Having qualified a second time, I didn’t wish to let the opportunity pass by again.

  Of the twenty-nine women who qualified, I would be one of the few competing in these trials who did not race on a sponsored team, have a coach, or receive subsidized gear or free ski endorsements. I came alone. I would also be, to my knowledge, one of the few women who was not a full-time, elite athlete. Instead, I worked many different jobs to pay for the sport I loved. Several years of regret over missing the trials the first time was enough for me. I’d earned the right to race at this level. That’s all I truly wanted—a chance to try.

  Though I had trained hard for this event, the other women had trained much harder for much longer. For them, a great deal was on the line. Years of focused preparation hung in the balance. Each hoped to compete in the Olympics. Because of this, I was aware my nearly random presence might not be welcomed by this tight-knit group even though I knew everyone I’d be racing with.