Excerpts from

Hope Rising: Stories from the Ranch of Rescued Dreams

by Kim Meeder

REFUGE

“Honey, your parents have died.” The words seared into my nine-year-old heart. In the blur of that moment, I knew someone was trying to comfort me, but all I wanted was to get away, to run as far as I could from this hideous truth. Tearing away from the arms that held me, I burst out through the back door of the house and ran. I ran and ran through a small orchard. The short distance felt like miles until finally I fell, face down, into the powdery, dry earth. I could hear screaming, only to realize that it was my own unrecognizable voice—the cry of a child’s heart that was trying to comprehend the incomprehensible.

I loved both of my parents with all of the passion of a child’s heart, yet divorce was tearing them apart. My dad sought help in many professional directions, but, tragically, help was not to be found. With a decision conceived through blinding despair, he grimly ended my mother’s life and then his own.

Silence. At long last there was silence. All that was left of my shattered voice whispered the simple words, “Jesus, help me.” A near silent breeze moved through the leafless branches overhead.

In that moment, looking down through the lifeless trees, angels might have seen deep knee prints forming in the dusty earth next to a small, huddled form. It was there in that barren place that the Lord of all knelt to comfort a broken child. In that instant my life was saved. Not fully understanding all that had happened inside my heart, what I felt, what I knew was that I would never again be alone.

After the death of my parents, I moved in with my grandparents. It wasn’t long before they had the foresight to buy a small horse for me. Between the love of the Lord and that little horse, Firefly, I found a refuge in my shattered life. Riding became my place of safety and peace. No matter how difficult things were, my troubles could never catch me when I was on Firefly.

Most days I jumped off the school bus and ran as fast as I could down the road that led to our house. I tore off my school clothes as I ran into the house and yanked on old jeans as I ran out. I couldn’t get to my little mare fast enough. Tears can wait only so long. I was convinced that there was no better place to cry than on Firefly’s soft neck. Certainly I couldn’t have wished for a better listener. She always seemed to understand my broken heart. She never judged me. Instead, she carried me away to a place where the hurt was not swift enough to keep up.

We rode so fast that my tears were whipped dry from my face. We would wind through the brushy forest to leave behind the pain that tried to destroy my heart. By playing my imaginary game of hide and seek, my pain was soon lost far behind. Only then was my heart free to soar.

For many years my favorite place to ride was an oak forest not far from home. The trees were immense. I used to think that it would take an entire family, holding hands, to reach around each massive trunk. Their gigantic spreading branches arced across the sky, weaving into each other as if they were holding hands in a mighty celebration of life itself. Beneath their shady expanse all kinds of life seemed to thrive—including mine. It was here that I was always safe.

Then the unthinkable happened. A firestorm struck down this magnificent place.

Many months passed before I was able to gather enough courage to ride back and survey my special haven. I was horrified. The devastation was so complete, so final. Nothing but charred blackness existed in this once spectacular place. My mighty oaks were gone. In their place remained only yawning cavernous holes where their roots had once been. They had been destroyed down to their very foundations.

I was completely overwhelmed as I slid off Firefly’s back and walked through the sooty black powder. My tears broke through my emotional dam in an uncontrollable flood. This was my special place, my healing chamber, my home. Now it was destroyed beyond recognition. “Dear Jesus, this is just like my life,” I sobbed.

The puffy, black soot billowed up nearly to my waist. Firefly and I had been walking a while, and finally my racking sobs subsided into silent tears that streamed down my face. And then I saw it. In the vast expanse of black one tiny oasis of color survived. I moved closer and knelt down to inspect this tiny pink wonder. A little plant had risen through the ash and, defying all the odds, dared to bloom in this world of black. Then I heard within my heart the unmistakable voice of the One who had knelt beside me so many years before. “You are right, child—this is just like your life. You see, I have raised you out of the ashes.”

The truth of that moment has become even more powerful over time. A childhood event that should have destroyed my life instead, by Jesus’ love, gave me life. I once had a horse that gave me refuge and saved my life. Now I have twenty-five that save other children’s lives. I once lived in an ashen place. Now I live in an earthly paradise where by the grace of God I am allowed to be a steppingstone for others to leave their ashes behind.

Angels in Horsehair

Adam was so small for his age. It was the first thing I noticed when his caseworker introduced us. His eyes, shadowed with sadness, were too large for his little face. He was drawn into himself, as if he were trying to fit his diminutive frame into an even smaller space. It was clear that this child had known more terror in his handful of years than most knew in a lifetime.

The pair had traveled to the ranch unannounced with the hope of simply petting the soft muzzles of my “angels in horsehair.” Even though the ranch was alive with children, Adam stood apart, completely alone—a tiny brown-eyed lamb lost in his own skin.

I smiled at him. He immediately looked to the ground in retreat. My heart staggered under the weight of his loneliness. I prayed that God would meet this child in this place in a special way.

I knelt down and quietly tried to engage Adam in a simple conversation. I asked him if he had ever ridden a horse before. He stared at the ground, somber as an ancient sage, and silently shook his head. “Would you like to?” I asked. His little head snapped up, and he looked me directly in the eyes with more than a little disbelief. I smiled into his questioning face. “We have a pony for you,” I told him. “A very special pony who would very much like to meet you.”

“Really?” he asked, with more emotion than I’m sure anyone had seen in a while. He looked at his caseworker and then back at me. I told him where the halters were and pointed back behind the arena to where the golden pony, Hobbs, lived. Adam flashed us a little grin and took off at a run.

From a distance in that moment he must have looked like every other child at the ranch. But from my view, I was horrified! His grin revealed a mouth full of broken teeth. He ran on ahead of us. I could feel my neck prickle before I turned to his counselor and quietly asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

It took her a long moment to answer. When she did, her voice was choked by the grip of anger and compassion. “It’s so much worse than you could imagine,” she finally stated. “A father is supposed to love, cherish, and protect his son. Not only has Adam’s “dad” broken most of his son’s teeth with his fists, but before he went to prison, he would get drunk and make his son run around the yard while he shot at him with a rifle!”

We walked on in silence. Both of us watched Adam enter the pony’s paddock and begin stroking his face. “It’s a miracle he’s still alive,” she finally said.

Together, Adam and I led the pony back to the hitching post and went through the grooming and tacking process. Often I placed my hands over his to guide them. I held Hobbs’s hooves and Adam cleaned them. I lifted the saddle into place, and he cinched up the girth. Then it was time to put on the bridle. I showed the little boy where his hands and fingers should be, how to hold his arms, and where he should stand. Then I placed his hands so that they gripped the bridle in the right way, and gently moved him toward the pony’s left shoulder. It was up to him now. Silently I stepped back and watched.

Adam stood quietly for a moment, as if taking in all that he had just learned. And suddenly, Hobbs did something I have never seen any horse do before or since. As the child stood by the pony’s shoulder, Hobbs reached around with his head and neck and pressed Adam into his body. The pony held him so tightly in the curve of his neck that he could not raise his arms.

For long moments the pony stayed that way, encircling Adam’s tiny body with his neck. He couldn’t move anything except his eyes. They rolled back to look at me. I could clearly see that Adam was afraid.

What was Hobbs doing? I could think of only one thing to say. The words all came out in a rush. “Oh, my gosh! I think that this pony is giving you a hug!”

Adam’s huge, startled eyes moved in pinball fashion as he tried to process what was happening.

“I have never seen him do that to anyone else,” I added. “You must be very special.”

Adam’s face began to relax with my reassurance. He appeared to accept what I’d said. Slowly he wriggled his right arm out and began to hug the pony back. For a brief moment, this battered child was allowed to be nothing more than a little boy who was loved by a pony. Adam’s head slowly dropped until it rested against Hobbs’s neck. Like a whispered prayer, more to himself than to anyone else, he began saying over and over, “He likes me…he likes me…he likes me.”

It was several minutes before Hobbs relaxed his grip on the child. Adam, seemingly so overwhelmed that anything on this earth would choose to love him, clung tightly to the pony with both arms, pressing his face into Hobbs’s golden body.

Moments passed and the boy’s hug melted into long strokes on both sides of the pony’s neck. The stony tomb that had once imprisoned Adam’s heart began to crumble under newfound love. Finally, he looked up and smiled. It was a radiant, jagged grin, so dazzling it was like trying to look at the sun. With his arms still around the pony, he turned and looked up at me. “He likes me!” he said again. But this time he said it out loud, with a convincing sparkle in his eyes.

I glanced toward heaven with a wink and a smile and whispered, “Thank You.”

Force of One

My life is so completely blessed by a myriad of special friends. Each one is unique and separate, embodying an individual beauty. Like embracing a magnificent bouquet of flowers, each single masterpiece carries with it a fragrance that is unequaled.

Such is Katie, a rare blossom who constantly exemplifies how beautiful a heart can be when it is deeply rooted in the rich soil of selflessness. Katie has taught me on several occasions the beauty of simply giving from where your roots have spread. To her, generosity is one of the most natural things a heart can know.

While I struggle with the foreign entanglements of fundraising and what might work and what hasn’t, she simply does it. With the apparent ease of breathing, Katie intrinsically knows how to gather finances for the things that she believes in. She doesn’t sweat or struggle, beat a drum or ring a bell. Endowed with a quiet confidence, she has learned how to clear a space beneath her flourishing leaves and encourage good will to grow up beside her.

Katie has allowed the normal events of her life to channel help where help is needed. She does innocuous things such as having a concession stand at her own birthday celebration. Katie informed her guests that all of the proceeds would be donated to the charity of her choice.

Without telling anyone she consolidated all her monetary Christmas gifts. Instead of spending the money on herself, she quietly mailed her gifts off to our ranch to help support horses she barely knows.

To say that Katie’s acts of kindness have humbled me down to the very core of my soul would reveal only a fraction of how much she has actually moved me. I have learned so much from her already. She is definitely an example of what one committed heart can do. Katie constantly reminds me that she is, as anyone can be, truly a force of one.

And all this from someone who has experienced the ranch only once, lives hundreds of miles away... and is only eleven years old.

The Wishing Tree

“Mama, the Wishing Tree burned down!” Breanna cried, her voice as thin and small as her nine-year-old body. “I went with Heather to see if it was okay. But it wasn’t. It burned down in the fire last week.”

“Honey, I know about the fire,” her mother said. “But what is this ‘Wishing Tree’?”

The child took a deep breath, as if she needed fortification for the precious pearl of information that she was about to reveal. She looked away, focusing on some imaginary spot on the floor. “The Wishing Tree was our special place….” she began.

The story was a complete revelation to Breanna’s mother. The child told her about the place of refuge that she and her older sister, Heather, had run to at the end of every day. To anyone else, it was nothing more than the useless, hollowed-out stump of an ancient juniper tree—a cavernous woody monument to what had once been. But the Lord has called all things to be part of the cycle of nature, and even in death this tree gave life—refuge—to two frightened and battered little girls.

Heather and Breanna had found an opening in this wizened massive stump that beckoned them to crawl inside to safety. There, within the hidden security of those strong wooden arms, they found escape from their fears. Inside this secret place they found what their daily life had all but destroyed—hope. Having recently escaped their violent and abusive father, they had left everything behind. All that was once familiar lay far in the distance. Now they had only each other.

But the ancient sentinel of the forest did more. It was not only a fortress from fear, but also their hideaway where the sisters could become, once again, ordinary little girls—giggling, playing, and sharing whispered secrets. There, inside that sanctuary, hope that had for so long been nearly crushed out was re-ignited.

Of all the hopeful dreams awakening in their young hearts, one shone brighter than the others—the desire to ride a horse. Anyone who has had the experience can understand that longing—to smell a horse’s earthy fragrance, to warm your hands under a thick mane, to feel one of God’s most powerful creatures beneath you, yielding to your commands with willing devotion…the sense of freedom.

This dream became their wish, their brightest star. It was for the hope of this gift that daily they would crawl into the gray snag, hold hands, and pray that somehow their wish would come true. It was this faith—the untarnished, innocent faith of two young girls—that transformed a lifeless old stump into a figurative “tree of life.” If a stump could smile, I’m sure it did the first time it became known as the Wishing Tree.

Listening to the woman’s barely audible voice on the phone was like hearing the weak and shallow breathing of someone near death. Exhaustion and titanic sorrow were evident in every labored sentence—she spoke with the unmistakable indicators of a severely abused and battered woman. Her name, she said, was Diane. We talked for nearly an hour as, word by word, her horrific story unfolded between us. Like a tightly gripped wad of paper, each newly revealed detail slowly and painstakingly began to reveal a crumpled self-portrait of her life of terror. Her voice was empty, weak, and timid, as if at any moment, at a poorly chosen word, a fist might crash through the telephone and slam into her jaw.

With my forehead cupped in the palm of my hand, I slumped over my desk, struggling to comprehend the violence she described. Her husband’s assaults were so ferocious that she had been hospitalized fifteen times. Once, in a drunken fury, he had smashed one of her arms and her collarbone, then seized her and threw her out of a second-story window. By the grace of God, with angels rushing in, she managed to catch a railing with her unbroken arm and hold on until help arrived.

During her husband’s brief imprisonment for that beating, Diane packed up her two girls and fled for her life. She drove as though chased by demons, frantically trying to put as many miles as possible between them and the man who had once vowed to love, honor, and cherish her.

Her car—equally battered and exhausted—broke down in three different states. Some incredibly generous truckers recognized her plight and, without prompting, became her guardians. Taking time away from their own hectic schedules, they made sure that she would not be stranded. Aware of her fear, they became a rolling team of strong comfort, protecting her throughout her flight. They radioed ahead and created a protective network on wheels of drivers who would safely guide the “Little Lady and her Angels.” Mile after mile, across this great country, the truckers used their rigs to pull her failing car in their own draft. Despite their differing routes, the truckers never left their post of protection until they had found another that they trusted to hand off their mantle of guardianship. Together, each doing what they could, they guided her to rest and safety.

Nearly collapsing with fatigue, Diane was at last forced to stop. They found a rundown shelter to stay in for what was left of that hellish night. Even then, the bone-weary woman felt the weight of evil eyes fixed on her as she guided her heavy-eyed daughters past the crowded rows of filthy bunk beds. But one of the men, sensing the undercurrent of danger, followed the desperate trio to their bedroom at the far end of the shelter. He had overheard her conversation at the front desk about her flight from a life of abuse.

“As a boy, I watched my mother being battered,” the stranger volunteered. “No woman deserves that,” he continued as his eyes dropped to the ground. “I know this is a really bad neighborhood. I want you to rest; I want you to be safe. Would you mind if I stood watch over your door tonight?” he asked with the heart of a little boy who could not do the same for his own mother. With that request, he boldly stood outside their door all night long. Throughout the dark hours, the cringing family could hear him driving away evil souls who lingered at the threshold of their room, this guardian angel with the heart of a lion—a son who had grown into a man any mother would be proud of. He kept watch all night so that a haggard woman and her frightened children could finally rest.

Moving on again at first light with the continuing help of the truckers’ impromptu safety network, Diane drove until they almost ran out of country—almost as far as one can go west from Louisiana. With two thousand miles behind them, she finally felt safe enough to stop in Bend, Oregon.

Once there, Diane read about Crystal Peaks Youth Ranch in a local newspaper. She confided that Heather and Breanna had pleaded with her for over a week to make this call. Her voice rose slightly as she spoke about her daughters and their long-held wish to ride. After some stammering hesitation, she added that it was Breanna’s birthday the following week. Too long beaten down to have much hope for anything, she simply asked, “Would it be okay if we came?”

Immediately she backpedaled, fearing she might have presumed too much. “They don’t need to ride or anything. Maybe,” she pleaded, “they could just come out and look at the horses.”

My heart ached for them. “Of course you must come,” I told her, and we made the necessary arrangements then and there. After I hung up the phone, I sighed deeply and prayed, Sweet Jesus, please help this little family.

On the appointed day, I watched with quiet anticipation as the two girls and their mother shyly slipped out of their car. They huddled together as they approached me, moving as though they were a single living entity. So this, I thought, is the woman who has survived so much. My first impulse was to scoop her up—to scoop them all up—in my arms, to hug them tightly as I kissed their hollow cheeks. I wanted to assure them that in this place they would always be safe; that here, both love and hope would flourish again.

But an ugly thought stopped me. They had never known a loving touch. My first impulse to reach for them might be misconstrued—seen as a threat rather than a comfort. So I held back, greeting them with warm words, welcoming them to our little ranch. I promised them that on this day, wonderful things were going to happen.

At first the girls were hesitant to address me. I looked down into their huge brown eyes, and finally, Breanna returned my gaze. With the innocence of an angel and the hint of a smile, she said, “I am eight today.”

It was a perfect opening. “Wow!” I said. “I’m honored that you would come to my ranch on such a special day. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

Breanna shook her head gravely.

Heather, who was standing almost completely behind her mother, somberly nodded yes. But she dared not raise her eyes to look at me.

I asked gently, “You have ridden before?”

Diane turned quickly to look at Heather. In a slightly embarrassed voice she said, “Honey, please tell the truth. You’ve never ridden a horse in your life.”

Finally, after a slight nudging from her mother’s elbow, Heather lifted her head and met my eyes. With a great summoning of courage she softly said, “I ride horses every night—” her eyes quickly dropped to the ground again before she finished—“in my dreams.”

Precious lamb, I thought. My eyes began to fill with tears. “Heather, did you know that sometimes dreams come true?” I said in a soft voice. “I have many horses that would love the chance to grant you your dream. Come on, let’s go and meet them,” I said, extending my hand toward hers. As if visually asking permission, she looked up at her mother and then back at me. Slowly, her gaze fell again to my outstretched hand. She studied it for a long moment, and then with slow deliberation, she silently put her hand in mine.

After riding two of our most gentle horses, a flicker, a glimmer, a tiny glow of hope began to emerge. And with hope, a new freedom—to play and to laugh like ordinary kids. We started out giving baths to the horses, but then, an honest “Oops, I didn’t mean to squirt you” quickly erupted into a full-blown water fight with all of us tumbling around on the grass, squealing and splashing in the spray.

The rest of the day flowed by like a river of dreams, rich and lazy under a golden August sky. Past each turn and bend the girls’ impish grins grew wider, melting into self-conscious giggles. Fear, which had shadowed their entire lives like a stealthy predator, could not rule them in this place. That ruthless fear was given a sound spanking and sent limping away.

Much too soon, it seemed, Diane said it was time for them to go. But first I steered them with feigned curiosity toward a white bundle I had placed on one of our picnic tables. The girls undid the twisted tablecloth wrapping, and then stood back in shy surprise. Inside were all the necessary symbols of this special day—a birthday cake, cups, plates, forks…and a huge bag of carrots!

After the cake had been shared and devoured, Breanna set out at a skip with the carrots to celebrate the day of her birth with all her newfound four-legged friends. The shadows grew longer in the warm early evening, and at last it really was time for the little family to say good-bye.

I wondered if it had been enough. Had I really done my best for a family that needed so much? They had cowered for so many years under a reign of terror—could one single day really make a difference? Lost in thought, I followed their car with my eyes as it started back down the drive and through the ranch gate.

With the innocent simplicity of any eight-year-old, our birthday girl twisted in her seat to look back at me. To my great joy I saw her tiny fingers raised high, waving back at me through the car window. Caught off guard, I waved lightly in return and smiled. Thank You, Lord. It was a good start.

The Wishing Tree is gone—destroyed in the fire. But the hope it nurtured within its protective walls remains and continues to grow. Hope cannot be destroyed. It calls us to rise up; it whispers our name. It draws us to believe that, sometimes, wishes do come true.

Diane told me later that our first day together was a turning point in their lives. It was a day when hope took root and began to grow—when the fear that had held them in bondage for so long received a mortal blow. Since then, their friendship has grown deep roots in my heart. I love the sparkling silliness of the two girls whom I have come to adore as my own. They are like bricks set in the foundation of what Crystal Peaks is becoming.

For permission to reprint stories from Hope Rising,

contact Pamela McClure, MMPR, 615.595.8321