God Drives a Tow Truck Page 2

  Unbeknownst to me, my father was suffering greatly from Frisky. He had known he was allergic to cats when he agreed to let me keep Frisky, but had hoped that by limiting his contact with the cat, all would be well. However, he developed increasingly severe asthma, courtesy of Frisky. Seeing how much I loved the cat, he never told me, and I never knew how much he suffered until years later, after Frisky was gone. As a parent myself now, I realize children never really understand the depth of a parent’s love. The best we can do oftentimes is pay it forward.

  I guess my dad felt that his suffering was worth what Frisky brought to me. A shy and insecure child, my best friend was my cat. Like many quiet, introverted children, my tender psyche was preserved by the loving, unconditional presence of an animal. A dog probably would have been better, since Frisky was somewhat aloof, as many cats tend to be. He did not tolerate my hugs well, and my hands were tattooed with bleeding scratches. However, he was the pet I had longed for, and I loved him fiercely.

  When our family moved from Tennessee to Illinois, we kept Frisky inside the first night in the new home. We’d been told the more time he had to spread his scent in the new surroundings, the more likely he would be to know and adjust to the new home. He would have been safer if we could have convinced him to be an indoor cat, but Frisky was miserable. He stood at the door, yowling and complaining. He wanted to chase birds, and roll in the grass. By the next morning, he was inconsolable, scratching at the door, begging to go out. We reluctantly opened the door and he shot out into the world he loved.

  “Don’t get lost!” I called, “Stay near!”

  I watched his striped tail disappear around a corner of the house and he was gone, exploring his new territory.

  While he was still out, it began to rain. The drizzle became a torrent. I opened the door and called his name. No soggy cat came rushing into the warm house. By nightfall, he still had not returned. Had the rain washed away his scent, the reliable GPS for a cat? My mom and I drove around the streets, with the car windows rolled down, rain spattering our arms. I plaintively called his name over and over, but we didn’t find him.

  “He’ll be back in the morning,” Mom said hopefully.

  The next day he had still not returned. I was inconsolable. For three days, we drove around our new neighborhood, up and down each street, repeatedly crying his name. No sign of him. He had never stayed away more than one evening. My tender, lonely, young heart was broken.

  A week after Frisky had disappeared, I once again cried myself to sleep. In the early morning, I had a dream. In my dream, I was led to a white house with blue shutters, about a mile from our own. I could clearly see the route from my house to the distant one, on the outskirts of our neighborhood. A woman stood in front of the house, and in her arms was Frisky.

  I awoke to a still dark sky, the moon and stars not yet blotted by a rising sun. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. I heard my dad snoring.

  Running into my parent’s room, I cried, “I saw Frisky, I know where he is! Get up, get up, we have to hurry!!!!”

  “Where?” my mother asked drowsily.

  “In my dream. I know where to go. Hurry!”

  I was frantic as I waited for my mother to get dressed. I don’t know why she trusted me, but I don’t recall her complaining. However, she did not move as quickly as I wanted her to. Finally, I raced out the door, my mother gathering car keys and following me. The sun was rising. The day was warm. I pointed out the streets my mother was to drive on, and told her which way to turn at each corner. It had been such a long time now since my dream. Would the white house with the blue shutters be there? Would a woman holding my cat wait for us? I directed my mother, urging her to drive faster.

  “There, there!” I said.

  Mom pulled to the curb, and stopped the car in front of a white house with blue shutters. A woman was sweeping the driveway. It was the same woman I had seen in my dream. I rolled down my window.

  “Please,” I sputtered, “Have you seen a cat? A large brown tabby?”

  The woman raised her eyebrows and gasped. She leaned on her broom.

  “Why yes,” she said, “I kept him in the garage all night. I assumed he was lost when he wandered over. I fed him and was going to post signs today. But he was so upset and so anxious to leave that I finally let him out this morning. Just about a half hour ago.”

  A half hour ago! Exactly when I had seen him in my dream!

  “Which direction did he go?” asked my mother.

  The lady pointed down the street.

  “That way…he almost seemed like he knew where he was going. I just assumed he did.”

  “Thankyou,” said my mother. I could not speak.

  We drove around for another hour calling his name. He did not appear, and I never saw him again.

  Like all heartbreak, the ache subsided with time. With the perspective of years, I see the loss of Frisky was a blessing, in one respect. My dad’s asthma went away, along with the cat.

  But I wondered why God had sent me the dream. It was not a comfort to have come so close, only to lose Frisky again. However, maybe He had a lesson more important than the return of my cat. Perhaps He was teaching me a truth that would one day pave the way to my eternal happiness. I think He was urging me to believe that He does speak, He does direct, and if I am open to hear His promptings, I will find what I am seeking. But I cannot wait. I learned that when God points the way, do not pause. Sometimes the window of opportunity is slammed shut on those who hesitate.

  I became a Christian many years later, and I pored over the Biblical references to animals. I saw nothing to dissuade me from the hope that when I got to Heaven, my fat brown tabby cat would be sitting next to a heavenly Blue Jay nest, waiting for me to come open some heavenly window. I suspect that even in Heaven, he will not be able to resist stalking them.

  Chapter Four

  A Horse Named Joe

  1 Peter 4:8

  “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”

  I swallowed hard, my little pigtails shaking, and in my tremulous, nine year old voice, squeaked, “Will you let me work here? I will do any work you need if you will let me be near the horses.” This was perhaps the longest speech I had ever dared utter to an adult and it took every quivering ounce of courage I had.

  When I was nine years old, we moved again, this time to Illinois, and I was forced to leave my wonderful driftwood that looked like a horse, the glorious empty lot, and my sparkling stream. However, one of the most pivotal experiences of my life awaited me in Illinois. We lived approximately a mile from a horse farm. Remarkably, not only did my parents let this cowardly nine year old walk a mile alone to a strange farm, but the owners agreed to let me work there and “be near the horses.” (My mother now describes her parenting style as “benign neglect”. Probably prosecutionable nowadays.) Nonetheless, the child who peed in her pants rather than dare raise her hand to ask to go to the bathroom in third grade, somehow now summoned the strength to ask these strangers for a job.

  A few weeks later in exchange for my hard work shoveling manure, the owners Ella and George told me I could pick any horse as "my" horse, while I worked for them. The month of shoveling horse poop had established me as a hard worker and a horse fanatic. I knew and loved all the horses on the farm. Most were swaybacked, dismal plugs; old nags used for trail rides. They were plodding and placid, and would likely be sold for horse meat today. There were a few that were young and flashy. They were usually sold quickly. A horse named Ho-Hum had recently arrived at the farm. He was gorgeous, and had beautiful smooth gaits. Everyone loved him. We all knew he would not be there long before someone bought him. Ella suggested I pick him, as we stood at the fence to choose my horse.

  "I want Joe," I said instantly.

  "Joe? Why Joe?" she asked, surprised.

  Joe was a hackney pony. He had a big potbelly and a deep sway back. As far as horses go, he was ugly. However, I thought he
was beautiful. He was never used for trail rides because no one could put a saddle on him. I never heard details, but from what I understood, he had been severely abused under saddle and bridle by a past owner and if anyone even approached him with a saddle, he threw his ears back and began kicking. He refused a bit as well, so he was only ridden with a hackamore, a bitless bridle. The rare times he was ridden, it was only bareback.

  "Joe is mean," said Ella, "Why don't you take Ho-Hum?"

  "I want Joe," I insisted, momentarily squelching my terrified shyness.

  "Why?" asked Ella.

  "Because he needs me most," I told her.

  So Joe became “my” horse. I spent the next month bringing him carrots every day and grooming him. It had been a long time since anyone had bothered to groom the mud away from anywhere except the area of his back where the rider sat, on the rare occasions he was ridden. Matt, Ella's son was the only one who ever rode Joe, and Matt was cruel. He liked the challenge of Joe, who would buck every time Matt sat on him. Cruel though he was, he was a very good rider, having grown up on horses, and he would stick miraculously to Joe’s back through all the bucking. When Joe grew weary of bucking, Matt would dig his spurs in Joe’s sides, and race poor Joe around the riding ring. Joe’s eyes would be wild and white, and his dark brown hair lathered in sweat.

  I hated it when Matt wanted to ride Joe, but I had no power to stop him. While Joe was "my" horse, Matt was the owner's son, and a spoiled one at that. Whatever Matt wanted, Matt got. So when Matt finished riding Joe, I would quietly retrieve my tired horse, rub him down, and groom his frothy coat. I cuddled his muzzle against my cheek till his breathing slowed, and he was cool and calm.

  Matt ridiculed and tormented me, as well. He told me I was crazy to love Joe, and surely I understood I had no hope of ever riding him. I was not a good rider. I had only ever ridden Nipper, the tiny pony, and had fallen off many times. My work there was mostly shoveling layers of manure from the ill-kept stalls. I should have been horrified about the condition of that run down farm, but was too young to know any better. I was learning to tack the horses, and allowed to groom, but never allowed to lead a trail ride, like most of the other kids there. I learned to milk the cow, Matilda, and the goats. I eventually mastered squeezing the milk efficiently from the teats so that soon the cow no longer bellowed and the goats stopped kicking over the pail. The barn cats would gather around me and I would squeeze a warm stream of milk right into their pink, gaping mouths.

  "When are you going to ride Joe," taunted Matt, as he sat on the fence watching me brush the tangles from Joe's tail, "Be sure to let me know so I can put your funeral time on my appointment book."

  I ignored him. His taunts hurt even more than being humiliated by others might normally hurt a shy little girl because, inexplicably, I liked Matt. I wanted him to like me. He liked all the other kids, but he seemed to despise me. There was so little to despise, I never understood his animosity. I never spoke, and my entire time on the farm was spent with the beloved horses, or shoveling the beloved horses’ excrement. I was hard working, and silent. What could he find to hate?

  Ella taught me how to put the hackamore on Joe, and to slip it over his ears so it was secure. She taught me how to pick up his feet so I could clean his hooves. She didn't understand my attachment to this ugly, mean little horse, but she was kind in trying to help me learn to work with him.

  I continued riding Nipper, and fell off less and less. Ella watched me. Finally, one day she asked me if I was ready to try riding Joe. Of course I was ready, if riding upside down clinging to the belly of a pony as I had so recently done constituted “ready”.

  "Oh this I gotta see!" chortled Matt. Ella glared at him, and he skittered away to gather the others to sit on the paddock fence.

  "Yes, if you think I am ready," I told her.

  Joe always seemed to look forward to seeing me. He willingly trotted over when I would rush out to the pasture every day after school. I went unfailingly to the farm, no matter how frigid the Chicago winter was or how deep the snow. And I always brought him a carrot, and nestled my face against his muzzle, loving the warm burst of air from his nostrils.

  On this momentous day, I hurried out to the pasture, and when he saw me, he nickered and came trotting over. I snapped the lead on him and led him in. Ella handed me the hackamore. I bridled him, and led him out to the paddock. Matt and the other kids sat on the fence, snickering and whispering. I know my face burned bright red. I hated the lack of control I had over these crimson blushes.

  I tried to ignore them all, and put the reins over Joe's neck. He was taller than Nipper, but because his back was so swayed, it was not too much higher to scramble on.

  "Back up everyone!" yelled Matt, "Cause when he starts bucking, he is gonna throw Vicky our way!"

  The crowd of kids laughed.

  I grabbed a hold of Joe's mane and pulled myself on him.

  "Whoa!" screeched Matt, laughing as I fumbled and struggled to throw my leg astride, "At least she is a really good rider!"

  That caused another eruption of laughter.

  Joe shifted his legs.

  "Look out!" called Matt.

  I pulled myself to a seated position and gathered the reins. Joe turned his head to look at me, his soft brown eyes kind and encouraging. I nudged him gently with my heels. He walked forward quietly. I squeezed and he began to trot. His trot was quite bouncy, not at all like Ho-Hum, with his gentle rocking gait. I bounced up and down, my pigtails flapping with each beat. But I stayed on. Matt and the others laughed a little longer. I ignored them and turned Joe's head towards the outer wall so he would canter with the right leading foot, and squeezed again. As horrible as his trot was, his canter was to an equal degree glorious. It was smooth and soft, an easy rhythmic stride, with his deep sway back more comfortable than any saddle. I was not a good rider, but the deep depression of his back held me firmly in place. Joe responded quickly to my command, and we cantered joyfully around the ring.

  By the time I pulled Joe to a walk, Matt and the others were gone. Ella stood at the gate, with a funny look on her face. She opened the gate as I dismounted and led Joe out.

  "I would not have believed that if I hadn't seen it," she said, "Joe ALWAYS bucks."

  But Joe never bucked, not once, not ever, when I rode him. Even when I decided to ride him with a saddle, or ride him with my baby sister, Holly, in the saddle in front of me, he never tried to dislodge me. Joe never treated me with anything but love till the sad day that he died of colic.

  The day he died, I raced home from school, hopefully grabbed a carrot, knowing he had been very ill with colic the night before. I ran the mile to the farm, and when I entered the barn, Ella was waiting for me. Her face looked stricken, and I didn’t need to ask if Joe was better. I ran out to the pasture and wandered among the horses, sobbing my little heart out.

  I sat on a rock by the pond in the pasture and buried my face in my arms. Then I felt a hand on my back. Matt patted my back gently.

  “I’m really sorry, Vicky; I know you really loved Joe.” I cried and cried while he patted my back.

  Funny how that experience from so many years ago would now circle back. Forty years later, Nicole at Hollow Creek Farm emailed her volunteers and board members, asking if any of us knew a humane horse trainer to work with Sadie, the wild mustang.

  “She needs to learn that not all humans are monsters,” wrote Nicole.

  I had never worked with a wild mustang, but I had loved an ugly, old, angry horse so thoroughly that he loved me back. In Nicole’s eyes, that was qualification enough.

  I have since discovered that you never know when God is preparing you, or what He is preparing you for. But I am certain that every experience He puts before us can be turned into a blessing. I was a lucky little girl that my blessing nickered with so much love.

  Chapter Five

  Learning the Value of Stopping

  Psalm 138: 6-7

  6 Though the LORD
is exalted, he looks kindly on the lowly;

  though lofty, he sees them from afar.

  7 Though I walk in the midst of trouble,

  you preserve my life.

  There are good reasons why every intersection has a big red stop sign. It is not just because red looks nice against the deep blue sky. Stopping is a critical skill. I don’t know why my brother neglected that part of my roller skating education until AFTER I entered the regional speed Skating competition.

  I loved my brother, but when he begged me to join his roller speed skating team, I pointed out that I didn’t know how to roller skate.

  “That’s ok,” John insisted, “All we need is a body. You will be the only 18 year old girl in the competition. If you put on skates, you will win.”

  “Don’t I have to cross a finish line at some point?”

  “Well yes, but technically you could crawl the whole way. Don’t worry. I will teach you how to skate.”

  I don’t know if it has become obvious yet, but anyone who knows me for any length of time quickly discerns that skill and talent and knowledge are rarely prerequisites for me to try something. So far, I have never been asked to do brain surgery, but if someone is willing to let me have a go at it, I am game. How hard could it be? Other people learn to do it.