Fierce Beauty (21 page)

When we purpose to continually abide in a new mind frame, we pass through the threshold of what was once our prison and into our future of liberty. It’s in this place that we fully know freedom, the beautiful sovereignty that Jesus Christ purchased for us long ago. He is our only true example, and He forgives each of us, not because we deserve it, but simply because we ask.

Genuine forgiveness does
not
depend upon another’s response. It is based on truth—the truth that Christ has forgiven us. Whether others respond well to our desire for reconciliation—or completely reject it—is irrelevant. What
is
relevant is that we choose to be obedient and follow the example of our Lord.

In this life many times we’ll feel the onslaught of unbearable waves. Though it might not seem like it at the moment, when we face impossible seasons of stress—when the waves are too big, the icebergs too close, and the environment too severe—our King will
always
provide a way of escape. In Him, “everything is possible” (Matthew 19:26).

Many things happened that day on the lake that didn’t seem coincidental. Joan and I were the only ones who saw the complete fall. I believe it was meant for
only
us to see. The Lord gave us a visual example, a covenant, of what we had already chosen to do in our hearts. Once the wall of ice came crashing down, not one wave—but seven—rampaged toward us. Each seemed to carry its own unique intent to inflict havoc and challenge our new position.

While pondering this one day, a Scripture passage emerged in my heart: “Then Peter came to him and asked, ‘Lord, how often should I forgive someone who sins against me? Seven times?’ ‘No!’ Jesus replied,
‘seventy times seven!’
 ” (Matthew 18:21–22). The sooner we learn how to forgive, the smoother and more peaceful this journey through life becomes. We should be as quick and comfortable with choosing to forgive as we are with choosing to blink.

Friend, it’s not hard—it’s a choice. Since we have been forgiven, we
can
forgive. God’s love is so strong that if we let it flow through us, it will crash down
all
our walls of unforgiveness.

Thank God, because He forgives completely, we’re released to completely forgive.

Editor’s Note:
Read more about Geoff Moore and his music at
www.geoffmoore.com
.

She was introduced to me as Angela. She’d come to our ranch as part of a high school incentive program for girls who were flunking their classes. What struck me was how so much sorrow could emanate from such a diminutive girl. It was exactly
because
of her sadness that I chose her out of the half-dozen girls in the group that day to work with.

Years of ranch life have taught me that the fastest way to get to know people is to work with them. Rarely do I have prior knowledge of what resides inside the hearts of those who make their way up our hill. My staff and I have discovered that a few minutes of working alongside our guests before they ride is a remarkable way for them to express stress, relax, and begin to trust. This often becomes the key that opens the great vault doors that guard the heart. It’s also during this time of leaning into the harness together that my team and I have the opportunity to pour into every young heart just how much each one is needed, appreciated, and loved.

After it was established that Angela would work with me, we walked away from the group toward our waiting chore. Once sequestered from the other girls, her beautiful Hispanic features appeared even more hollow and diminished. The tiny, dark-skinned girl followed my steps without saying a word. I slowed my pace and turned toward her, hoping to begin a conversation. Angela immediately dropped her head, blocking my view of her face. Before she hid from me, however, I noticed something else: her eyes appeared listless, almost dead. The contrast between
this girl’s lovely features and her lifeless countenance was startling. I felt as if I were ushering a child of glass. I sensed that at any moment she might shatter into a pile of irreparable shards.

Grooming a quiet horse was an appropriate job for a girl projecting such emotional weakness. I chose Teva, an amiable palomino-mustang cross. This docile mare had a gentle nature and was the smallest horse on the ranch.

After tying Teva in a semiprivate area, I retrieved a brush bucket. Standing side by side, Angela and I began to groom our placid mare. Trying to open the door between us, I asked Angela many simple questions. Her answers were brief and emotionless. During our minimal conversation, I was surprised to learn that she was sixteen. She was so tiny she could’ve easily passed for a twelve-year-old.

With brush in hand I continued to explore my new friend. After each of my gentle inquiries, she politely answered with a voice even smaller than her stature.

“Do you live in Bend?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Has your family lived in the area for very long?”

She thought for a moment. “Well … not really.” I sensed this question exposed a conflict.

“Do you live with your mom and dad?” I gently prodded.

“Well, I used to live with my mom … but we got in a fight, and she kicked me out.” Her deep brown eyes never left Teva as she continued to brush.

My heart clenched with concern. “Baby, where are you living now?”

Angela’s hesitation alerted me that I was getting close to her wounding. I glanced at her smooth, dark face and noticed a tightening between her brows. Without looking up, she replied, “My best friend invited me to live with her. It was okay for a while. I liked it a lot … until her husband tried to have sex with me. I knew that wasn’t right, so I left. I moved in with some other people … but I can tell they don’t really want me.” She
paused for a moment as if to convince herself again that this was really happening. “I don’t know … I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

I felt so heavy, so deflated by what this little girl was going through. I reeled back to the days when I was sixteen and all the things I worried about. Being
homeless
certainly wasn’t one of them! Without thinking, I stumbled on. “Girl, what about your dad? Can you live with him?” Hoping to add emphasis to my compassion, I turned to look at her.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next.

Angela placed her left hand on Teva’s golden back to steady herself. She took a deep breath and, just for an instant, closed her eyes. Like ice trying to withstand more pressure than its brittle surface can bear, my little glass girl was cracking beneath the weight of her emotions.

Angela’s dark lashes fell as her gaze plummeted. Her beautiful brown face paled as if overshadowed by ghosts she wanted to conceal. She fought for control. I watched her tiny nostrils flare repeatedly, proclaiming that tears were imminent. Her physical reaction warned me that what was about to cross her lips was intensely painful.

In that moment my prayer was little more than
Jesus … wisdom!

The brush in Angela’s right hand began to shake. She glanced at me briefly to see if I’d noticed. I had. It was over, and she knew it. Her attempt to hide had failed. Now all that was left was an emotionally exposed little girl standing in an unknown land before an unknown woman.

She was naked, alone, and collapsing.

By daring for a moment to reveal her pain, she risked her tenuous sense of security on the rare chance I might care. Taking that fleeting chance, she looked up into my face. The moment her eyes found mine, a charge of emotion arced between us like a banshee current leaping toward a grounding rod.

On being seen—
really seen
—she drew in a gasp. While holding her gaze for an instant, I watched her lower lip begin to tremble while her huge brown eyes filled with liquid glass.

Just as quickly, her gaze broke away. Apparently not knowing where
to turn, she rotated back toward the horse. Staring at nothing, she continued brushing mechanically. Silent tears streaked down her flawless cheeks. Gathering together under her chin, fluid sorrow dropped without herald and vanished forever into the earth beneath us. In that moment I wondered how many other tears had fallen. How often had she held herself and cried alone in her prison of sorrow, hidden from the sight of all?

Hoping that a quiet moment would draw Angela out, I said nothing and continued brushing shoulder to shoulder with her. After several deep breaths she began to gather herself. She ran the back of her slender hand under her jaw and swept away the remaining droplets that gave witness to the depth of her grief.

It was time.

With one more heavy breath, Angela steeled herself by resting both hands on Teva’s sturdy body. “I cannot live with my dad,” she began, “because last year my two brothers, my grandmother,
and
my dad … were all killed.”

From anyone else’s viewpoint I’m sure we made an endearing sight—two friends brushing a golden mare under a late afternoon sun. Yet the moment was anything but endearing.

I felt as if I’d just been crushed by a wrecking ball! My first recognizable thought was a stammering,
Lord … I don’t know what to say!
My throat tightened.
Lord … I don’t know how to comfort her
.

Rising from the stillness that enveloped us, a small voice rang in my heart like a bell on a cold day. Though spoken with softness, its proven authority reverberated within my chest.
Yes, child, you do! Your words of comfort will be as natural as your own breath. You have not only felt this comfort; you have lived it. Tell her of the healing that I have accomplished in your life. Tell her what
I
have done for you
.

My gaze rested on the distant horizon. Beset by an unexpected whirlwind of memories, I was carried back to my childhood. Suddenly
I
was the little raven-haired girl struggling to survive a murderous attack of sorrow, confusion, and hopelessness. Looking down as if from an angel’s
view, I saw through the fallow tree branches a child writhing in the tilled soil below. Her small hands desperately clenched fistfuls of dirt in an effort to hold on to the hands of the beloved parents she’d lost. Facedown, she sobbed, screamed, coughed, and wretched. Wailing the name of the only One who could save her, she cried, “Jesus, Jesus, help me!”

With that simple plea the Lord of All descended through time and space and knelt beside a breaking child. Once I was just like the waif who stood shivering beside me, a devastated child dying of a broken heart.

I faced Teva and obeyed my God by simply speaking and trusting Him to provide the words. “Oh, Angela, I’m sorry. So sorry. But, baby girl, I’m moved that you came to the ranch today … and I’m especially glad that you’re with me. Out of all those who are here today, I’m quite certain I’m the only one who can honestly say I know how you feel. And you know something, girl? I can tell you from experience that you’re going to be okay. I know that it doesn’t seem like it right now … but you’re going to make it through this.”

I turned and looked directly into Angela’s eyes. “Wanna hear how I know?”

If a look could be an action, her eyes were on their knees, pleading for an answer.

“On the day that
my
parents died, I was so devastated I didn’t think I could live another minute. And in my grief I cried out to Jesus for help. What I now know is the Lord of All took the little hand that was reaching out to Him … and He’s
never
let go. Not then, not now, not ever. Since I asked Jesus to help me, He’s never stopped helping me. Even though there were times when I felt alone,
I never
was … because from that day He’s never left me.”

I held Angela’s gaze and allowed a knowing smile to slowly cross my lips. In my memory our places were again reversed. Now I was the desperate child looking up into the wrinkled, kind face of my grandmother. Suddenly I was following her, carrying a basket of wet laundry to the clothesline. With practiced care she hung each soggy item to dry in the backyard. Looking down at me, she said with conviction, “We’re going to
make it through this. You’ll see.” Perhaps because of the way she said it, I believed her. I didn’t realize I was crying until she gently took the basket out of my arms, laid it aside, and scooped me into a hug. Grandmother and granddaughter wept together as damp laundry wafted around us in the warm breeze.

Though grieving herself over the loss of her daughter, my grandmother never lost sight of what she could do to help. She knew we had already lost enough. Without flinching, she and my grandfather chose to keep my two older sisters and me together as a family.

My grandma was the vibrant life ring that Jesus tossed out to save three little girls. Beth Everest, known to me and my sisters as “Mimi,” was five feet of concrete poured into selfless, loving hands and feet. In a time of great sorrow, she looked beyond her own grief and wounding and saw the wounded. Her focus didn’t reside on herself but on what she could do. And what Jesus did through her saved my life.

During many a summer’s twilight, we sat together on the cement steps that led into our home. With a bucket of peas between us, we’d shell them into large bowls that we had balanced between our knees. This was our special time to talk. Sometimes while shelling we counted the bats that flew out of a magnificent oak tree in the front pasture. Sometimes we laughed at the giant toads that dined on the bugs that fell from an old light bulb by the front door. Sometimes Mimi talked late into the evening, telling me stories of how she loved my grandfather, how she loved my mom, and how she loved me. In my vast desert of despair, her unfailing love was my oasis of hope.