When the girl came as she always did and kneaded the new dead hairs from his bright coat with supple fingers and ran the soft body-brush over him, he turned his head and watched her, accepting the soothing stroke of her hand, but he knew that the old anger was in him again. It had welled up in his heart until now it burst and made him whirl round and catch her slender back with his teeth, biting until the brush dropped from her hand, flinging her bodily against the far wall of the stall. She lay there huddled in the trampled bedding for a long time, and he stood over her, trembling, not touching her with any of his feet.
He would not touch her.
He would have killed any living creature that touched her then, but he did not know why this was so. After a while the girl moved and then crawled out of the box and he pawed through the bedding to the earthen floor, tossing his head up and down, letting the anger run out of him.
But the girl was there again, in the stable, the next day.
She cleaned it as she had cleaned it each other day and her touch on his body was the same, except there was a new firmness in it. And the horse, he knew that his strength, his anger, and his loneliness at last were challenged.* Horses and humans are alike. Whether discussing our walk in our faith or our walk with our trainer, often the one trying to help is the one we want to hurt. We test commitment. We create defenses. Often those defenses are in the form of anxiety, irritability, stubbornness and aggression. We protect our most intimate interactions and when we slightly open the door to that expectation with Christ {as our trainer} questions quickly arise. What do you want from me? Where do you want to me to go?
What if I get hurt?
Will you leave me? Brown Horse inspires us, because despite his previous experiences, he had the courage to slowly give those questions up. Just as Jesus proves his commitment to you, when handling Brown Horse, our touch is always resounding "Never. Never will I leave you, Never will I forsake you.“ {Hebrews 13}
*excerpt by Beryl Markham West Was the Night
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