Fierce Beauty Read online

  Once my fear and sorrow were sluiced by my tears, I slowly rose to my feet. While drying my face on the backs of my gloves, I noticed the box only a few feet away. Kneeling beside it, I reverently raised its heavy lid and carefully pulled out the book of names. I gently leafed through its tattered pages and found the last entry followed by nothing but white paper.

  Out of His mercy, my heavenly Father had given me one last opportunity to repair the nearly severed bond between my earthly father and me. Though his life ended in horrific despair, he would forever be my daddy. I would always adore him and all he had imparted into my life.

  Feeling again like a nine-year-old, I picked up a pencil and etched on the time-weathered sheet a long overdue letter of love to my dad. And beneath that entry, I wrote a message of deep gratitude to my God.

  THE CROSSROAD

  We can fight for our way—or submit to His.

  Friend, have you ever found yourself in a similar predicament—perhaps not literally clinging to a vertical sheet of ice, yet so committed to your personal path toward value and satisfaction that you suddenly realized you were on the precipice of death? Our need for self-worth and acceptance stalks each of us like an insatiable predator. And it can take so many forms.

  Through desire or fatigue, some of us have bowed in submission to the distorted, self-serving yuck that constantly floods our souls through the media. By glamorous proclamations that we’ll find personal satisfaction and romantic encounters and receive the attention and envy of others, we’re lured into believing the messages we read in books and magazines. We’re pressured to mirror the seductive imagery we see on television and movies. We’re bombarded with catchy tunes and slogans calling us to conform to what we hear on the radio at our offices, schools, or homes. The message, though it varies in delivery, is simply this: if we will just succumb to this world’s standard of beauty, we will have a purpose, we will have value, and we will be satisfied.

  Meanwhile, some of us are seduced by the promise of comfort and pleasure from things. We accept the world’s view that a higher-paying job, a bigger house, a trendy college, a newer car, and a flashier wardrobe will provide fulfillment. We buy into the narcissistic concept that wealth and possessions are the handholds in our ascent toward happiness.

  Please don’t misunderstand; there’s nothing wrong with wealth by itself. I know many who’ve done incredibly generous things with their financial blessings. Wealth only becomes dangerous when we value and seek it more than God. Unfortunately, this world twists our logic into the belief that we’re somehow owed adornments—that money, possessions, beauty, and comfort are our birthright and anything less is simply unfair. We’ve adopted the mentality of a spoiled princess, of self-appointed royalty wearing a crown of entitlement that brings glory to no one but ourselves.

  I can say from experience that choosing a life based on serving oneself simply does not fulfill. It places us outside the life we were meant for, looking in at all that could be. It leaves us feeling empty and alone. Useless. Worthless. Hopeless.

  Stuck.

  It’s at this crossroad, when the life we’ve chosen seems to turn against us, that we are tempted to blame God. Instead, we must seek Him.

  Each of us will know times when we’ll ask, How did it come to this? How did I get to this place of complete paralysis, hanging over what could very well be my ultimate ruin? The trail of choices by which we come to such a dark place is as unique as every person who reads this book. Yet the answer for each of us is always the same.

  Jesus Christ is the right choice at every crossroad and the answer to every question.

  We worship a Lord who is both fierce and beautiful—fierce in the way He hates injustice and sin and fights on our behalf; beautiful in who He is and the way He shows us grace, mercy, and love. As believers, we’re called to reflect Him and become fierce and beautiful as well. We were created to serve an eternal purpose—not to follow our mortal desires while wearing a crown of our making, but to follow the One who wears a crown of thorns. We were not made to live on the outskirts of a kingdom but to worship in awe at the throne of our King. We were not designed to be princesses of entitlement but warriors of encouragement, fighting to bring love and hope to the world.

  Our calling is to let go of our crown of gems (our puny personal ambitions, desires, and agendas) in order to pursue our true destiny: His crown of thorns (the will of our King). By doing so, we discover the value, joy, and fulfillment He always intended for those who call Him Lord.

  Even now the King is beckoning. May He strengthen you in your endeavor to serve less of yourself … and more of Him.

  THE PROBLEM

  2

  THE DREAM

  An Elaborate Prison

  Once again I adjusted my pillow. It was a vain attempt to find a comfortable position, something I’d already tried countless times that night. After a physically and emotionally demanding day on the ranch, sleep was slow to come. Yet it did finally come, accompanied by the most marvelous dream … Or was it a nightmare?

  Through the lifting haze of early dawn, I glimpsed her. Intrigue drew me nearer. She was the most magnificent feathered creature I had ever seen. She was a bald eagle.

  Her distinctive features were unmistakable … and unusual. I marveled at how her white head shone with the glittering brilliance of sunlight moving across snow. Though dusky in color, her body glimmered with the luminescence of stars on the darkest night. Moving closer, I saw that a thread of pure gold encircled every flawless quill. Her beak was formidable, strong, and impeccably outlined in … crimson.

  Shimmering in the day’s first glow, an elaborate object surrounded her. The circular base of the structure was fashioned in the likeness of an ornate crown. A blinding array of prismatic lights reflected off precious stones that covered its facade. Seemingly forged from molten sunbeams, golden bars rose from the base of the crown and converged in a point slightly above the eagle’s head. A brilliant diamond glittered at the peak.

  Together the eagle and her crown radiated an iridized flame that seemed to waft outward in mesmerizing waves of translucent color.

  She was an all-consuming beauty—she was perfect.

  Perfect.

  Her grandeur drew me toward her. Spellbound, I took one hypnotic step after another. As more details emerged, I noticed something else. Truth rose like morning mist in my heart.

  I’d been so captivated by her splendor that I hadn’t fully realized she was indeed a captive.

  The exquisite nature of her confinement veiled the fact that she was a prisoner. Her entrapment denied the eagle her birthright, her God-given liberty, and her purpose.

  Adding to the eagle’s woe, the golden cage was much too small. To fit within the glorious enclosure, her powerful back and shoulders were compromised downward. Her razor-sharp talons were painted in confusing patterns and were absurd in length, garish and glossy from lack of use. The screaming voice of freedom that must have once filled her chest and split the sky now was silenced by the luxurious hell imprisoning her.

  Slowly she turned to look at me.

  The piercing eyes that surely used to reflect fiery passion for life and the brilliance of her Creator now mirrored only a withering image. Her shallow vision had narrowed to a single harrowing convergence—herself.

  The eagle’s glory, her calling, her very life were ebbing with every weakened breath. I realized the crimson that stained her flawless beak had seeped from her corrupted heart. It was her own blood.

  The eagle was dying.

  My heart cried out for justice, for her release. This should not be her end. She was free from the moment of her creation. She has a destiny, a future, a purpose to fulfill. She was designed for a calling only she can complete. She must fly!

  The eagle’s eyes dimmed as her breath faltered. “No!” reverberated through my chest like an ancient war cry. I lunged toward the extravagant crown and attacked the perfection that was killing her. The brilliant confinement wa
s cold—and strong. I strained against the jeweled bars, trying to spread a threshold by which she could escape. With jaws clenched I threw my head back, then screamed the name above all names: “Jesus!”

  Instantly the combined light of a million stars flashed. Scorching heat surged over me. The bars began to yield, then exploded in a soul-shattering blast. Knocked backward, I watched in astonished wonder as a gaudy shower of splintered gold and scattering gems rained down through a cloud of shimmering dust.

  The eagle? Straining to see through the ethereal haze, I saw her gasping—but free. She made no motion to rise. She appeared to be locked in place, somehow held in the same position she’d always known. She was free. She just didn’t seem to believe it.

  “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” I shouted while crawling toward her. The eagle blinked and stirred. After closing the distance between us, I gathered her in my arms and, with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength, threw the magnificent bird skyward. Instinctively she snapped open her illustrious wings. I watched the raptor catch the uprising current of pure encouragement that rose from my heart to hers.

  “Fly! Fly! Fly, girl, fly!” I called out toward the heavens. With several strokes of her powerful wings, she soared upward. “Fly!” I continued to yell as I rose to my feet. She circled, perhaps looking for a greater updraft to fill her wingspan. Her wings rose and fell in mighty strokes, yet each appeared more labored than the last.

  Confused, I realized the eagle was no longer rising. She was falling!

  It was her adornments. The weight of her embellishments was more than she could bear.

  The great raptor began to plummet. A weak cry left her chest, not of triumph … but of defeat. She was failing. After plunging in a nauseating spiral, she collided hard with the earth, landing in precisely the same place she had just escaped from, among the twisted remains of her former prison.

  I watched in stunned silence. The eagle slowly roused, quietly disregarding me. Her only focus was concern over her radiant plumage. After careful inspection of every perfect feather, she appeared to be satisfied. Then the eagle glanced back and forth between earth and sky … deciding.

  Appearing somewhat revived by her brief flight, a temporary luster rose in her eyes. The beautiful bird cast one longing gaze back toward the permanent glory of heaven and chose her fate.

  With renewed resolution the eagle looked intently at the ground. Sifting through the glittering debris of what was once her lovely prison, she retrieved a fractured length of gold. Holding it close, she studied its brilliance. Speechless, I stood as a witness.

  The eagle continued on her purposeful search. I watched, mouth agape, as the defeated raptor began to reconstruct—piece by alluring, glittering, captivating piece—the elaborate confinement that had once enslaved her.

  The eagle was rebuilding her crown.

  3

  THE GIRL

  Beautiful Like Jesus

  “Look at me. I’m a princess!” the little girl said as she pointed to the ruffles that adorned her shirt. With surprisingly practiced rhythm, Carrie guided my attention to a sparkling necklace of faceted beads and matching bracelets that encircled each wrist. Without pause, ten perfectly polished pink fingernails were raised for my admiration. I smiled when I noticed her wrists were held high, with fingers draping downward in the universal “kiss my ring” position.

  Over the next hour I watched this eight-year-old flit about our ranch like a confused butterfly not knowing where to land. She was scheduled to ride a horse, but that didn’t interest Carrie at all. Sadly, nothing I had to offer satisfied her standards.

  For years I’ve reveled in sharing with the kids who come to Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch, “If you go home clean, you probably didn’t have any fun!” I’m quite certain this harkens back to my own childhood, when I was famous for skidding into the dinner table from parts unknown, completely out of breath. Often my grandpa looked across the table at me, shook his head, and exclaimed, “Good grief, kiddo! It looks like you’ve been running through the bushes to comb your hair!” Experiencing life was a good thing. I always counted myself extra lucky to bring home a few souvenirs. Whether they were stuck in my pockets or snagged in my hair really didn’t matter.

  In the sixteen years I’ve run Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch, I’ve come to realize that ranching and horses aren’t for everyone, and that’s okay. My little princess guest seemed to fall into this category. She ricocheted from one area to another, finding each venue as unsuitable to her liking as the one before. Soon her sweetness deteriorated into sour whininess.

  “Euwwww, it’s dirty!” she complained. “I don’t want to ride, paint horses, swing, or play games on the grassy hill. My fingernails will get full of dirt!” As she spoke, she raised her palms so they faced her chest, and she spread her fingers. She circled aimlessly, looking like a sterilized, half-pint surgeon who couldn’t find her patient.

  Unfortunately, there was little that life on the ranch, or life in general, could offer her. Eventually Carrie settled on a small green bench nestled under a pine tree as the only place where she could remain clean and beautiful. Sitting quietly, she occasionally smoothed her shirt, examined the luster of her manicure, and carefully inspected every glittering bead that she wore. This seemed to be the best the young princess could do to fill her time. Meanwhile, her peers had an absolute ball daring one another to swim in the horse trough, striping their arms and faces with paint, riding ponies backward, and fully experiencing everything the ranch had to offer.

  Although I checked often on the little girl, she rejected my repeated offers. She was determined to do whatever it took to stay beautiful. For the rest of the afternoon, she sat under the pine tree … completely alone.

  Watching her, I couldn’t help but think of another small “girl” who used to come to the ranch and sit alone. Her name was Amelia, and she often drove her two granddaughters to the ranch to ride.

  Amelia was short and round with a cherubic, pie-shaped face. Her salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have a will all its own and framed her lively expressions in unruly waves. Her dark brown eyes gleamed with an impish twinkle that made me want to burst out laughing at a joke she’d yet to tell. Though her clothing was often old and too large for her small stature, she accessorized every outfit with something beautiful, something that always matched—a big bright smile. Amelia’s playful attitude seemed to beckon the wounded to rise up and dance. Often I imagined her leading a joyful procession. I’m certain she would have … if she could have.

  Amelia was crippled. A bout with polio during childhood had rendered her lower body nearly useless and caused her great pain. Even with the support of bulky leg braces, each step was accompanied by throbbing pangs. Simply getting in and out of the car, something most do without thought, was for Amelia an ordeal that took considerable planning. Yet mechanical assistance, walkers, canes, and lifelong pain were not enough to diminish the pure beauty of this amazing woman.

  Upon her every arrival at the ranch, Amelia steered through the main gate and blessed me with a gigantic smile and kisses blown in my direction. Since she was so small, her welcome barely cleared the dashboard. Her chin was always held high, not in arrogance, but out of necessity to see over the steering wheel. She drove a worn-out white sedan that reminded me a little of her—it displayed some rust and a few dents yet somehow managed to faithfully get where it needed to go. Amelia always parked by the ranch trading post. It was a happy place that offered the best view of the hitching and riding areas and of the Cascade mountains in the distance.

  “Kim, Kim!” she would hail in a heavy Spanish accent. Motioning with her hands, she would summon me to lean through the driver’s open window and hug her. With most of my torso stuffed in the narrow space, we laughed like little girls and reveled in a moment of simply being together. Never did I miss the opportunity to tightly embrace this triumphant sprite.

  The attribute I loved most about Amelia was her brilliant attitude: she never surrendered
to her quiet life of pain. In her mind the social health and well-being of her shy grandbabies far outweighed her own ease or comfort. With what appeared to be unlimited patience, she sat in her car and watched them enjoy our horses for hours.

  One summer afternoon I stood waiting for my precious little friend to make her way up the ranch driveway. It was hot, and the light afternoon breeze was a gift to the back of my neck. Hearing the sound of tires crunching through gravel, I turned to look down the hill and saw Amelia’s car approaching. As soon as I saw her face, I knew something was wrong. The trademark smile was missing, along with the usual kisses blown my way. Even my window greeting did little to lift her somber mood. After some honest questioning, the source of her sorrow finally ebbed out in a trickle of painful words.

  “There is nothing that I can do, nothing that helps this wonderful place,” Amelia said. “Everyone who comes here helps by doing something, yet here I sit, able to do nothing.”

  My heart withered under the weight of Amelia’s distress. As if polio hadn’t already taken enough from her, now it threatened to rob her joy as well. The discouragement she expressed lay in gloomy contrast to her usually sunny spirit. Even after my strong rebuttals, she left the ranch a few hours later, looking as defeated as when she had arrived.

  Two weeks passed before Amelia returned. This time I was relieved to see that she was her bright, waving-and-blowing-kisses self again. She pulled her car to a stop in her favorite place and could not roll down her window fast enough. Moving her mouth up to the opening window, she triumphantly declared, “I finally found what I can do!”

  Before I could reply, she turned away from me. By the time I reached her car door, she’d turned back around and now held an enormous plate of homemade sugar cookies. She lifted the platter until it nearly collided with her chin. Amelia beamed with such brilliance that her delight poured over me like a warm, living wave. All she wanted to do was help, and by finding a way, her joy was released for all to benefit.