Part I
Awhile ago I had a memory of my experience with Rebel. Back when I was twenty years old, I asked my father if he’d come with me to buy a horse. We’d both just gotten home from a hard day’s work. By that time in our relationship, he was used to my asking him to explore the unusual with me, but I think he was surprised with my request. He put down the paper with a “what next” expression on his face and said, “Let’s go.”
After about a week of searching, I saw an ad for a three-year-old gelding that caught my attention. Dad and I drove out to the ranch and had arrived there before the owner of the horse did. A horse in the corral fit the description of the one advertised. He was a beauty. Bay colored, a white diamond on his forehead. As I approached the corral, I remembered all the stuff my riding instructor taught me. Rule #1: Don’t get too close to a horse you aren’t familiar with. As it was then, is now and probably forever will be, it’s very difficult for me to follow rules.
I proceeded to walk toward the corral, went under the fence and approached the horse that I’d eventually name, Rebel. He allowed me to touch his snout and to stroke his neck. A connection was made. Dad stood next to us. I could sense his uneasiness. He hesitated, but gave me a boost up onto the back of this marvelous animal. (Notice: Dad was uneasy but did not stop me. The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree!)
No bridal. No saddle. Nothing was between us. I lay down on his back. Together, Rebel and I rode around the coral.
I bought Rebel that day. Memories of those first few weeks together surfaced. When I’d whistle for him he’d break from the other horses and run toward me, expecting a snack and a ride. We acquainted ourselves with each other through the process of brushing him, cleaning his hooves, gradually introducing him to the English saddle and a bridle. He’d been ridden before, but not often I was told.
A connection was made. Rebel and I were a team.
My story has been: I had a horse. His name was Rebel. I had him for one summer. Then I sold him.”
The story is much more detailed than that. I can see why I didn’t want to remember what really happened to him.
It happened gradually, my memory reminded me. I became more interested in what I looked like riding this beautiful creature than I did in him. He became secondary. The brushings became routine, a chore. The pressure to perform and to perform well superseded the joy of the ride, the joy of the connection.
One day we went for a ride. I remember I was in such good form!! I could feel it. Riding “English” is a skill and I had it licked. I wanted people to notice me. What I had not noticed was the myriad of people and the noise at the fairground across the street. A flag flapped in the wind. Rebel bolted. My head hit the cement.
An ad in the paper was placed the next day. Four days later, Rebel was gone. I had completely forgotten how we’d met, the connection we had. I had traded a relationship for an image.
I bet you can relate to the relationship I had with Rebel. How often have you done the same thing with the relationships you’ve had with others, God and yourself?
How often have you, like me, allowed your identity to get so tied up in how well you perform and in what people think that you’ve lost sight of what is important?