Fierce Beauty (22 page)

Mimi was not perfect, but she was my hero. She realized how deeply this child loved horses. In one bold decision she bought a small horse for me. My life was never the same after that. What I’ve since learned is that a good horse will intuitively take you where you often cannot go on your own—yet where you most need to go.

It was on the back of a small horse with crooked front legs that I felt safe, that I felt loved, and that I fell in love with Jesus. Firefly, my little roan mare, became the refuge where my broken heart discovered the
healing redemption of my Lord—all because a grandmother purchased a horse for her granddaughter. The impact of this single choice rings through my life to this day.
This day …

Angela’s eyes were riveted to mine, her lips slightly parted, silently imploring me to continue.

“What should have destroyed me,” I said, “Jesus turned around, and with His love He gave me life … and not just me. Look around you. Look at all the kids in this place.” Her eyes drifted momentarily, then locked back on mine.

“In His timing Jesus is the only One who can transform our pain into something amazing, something beautiful,” I said. “He is the only One who can take our jagged scars and transform them into beauty marks for His glory. Pain can either destroy or define. Angela, we don’t have to be destroyed by our pain. In Jesus’ hands how we grow
through
our pain can define us. In time the healing from our own brokenness can be so powerful, so complete, that we can actually help lead the way for others to know the same healing from God that has been extended to us. Baby, if Jesus can do this for me, He can do it for you too.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Angela’s words flowed like a river bursting through an earthen dam. With laughter and tears we spoke freely of life and death and much in between. When it was time for her to go, I hugged her tight and kissed both of her cheeks. Angela thanked me for everything. With shining eyes she exclaimed that because of our conversation, she had some new ideas she was really excited about.

As this tiny girl walked down the driveway, I thought again of my grandmother, so similar in stature. Mimi may have been small, but her determination to fight for me and my future was immeasurably huge. She gave me hope, a reason to live when I needed it most. I prayed that Jesus would find someone to do the same for the young woman I’d just met.

Near the bottom of the driveway, Angela turned to look back at me one more time. Her beautiful brown face spread into a glorious smile.

My heart warmed as I smiled back.
Maybe
, I thought,
He already has
.

It’s an amazing truth that out of our King’s great mercy, He delivers us through our suffering so that our past hurts can heal others’ futures.

Everyone will know suffering. When we’re crushed by pain, if we cry out to Jesus, He comforts us. He offers His healing compassion in such abundance that we can actually
give
His comfort to those around us who are going through similar hardships. Every instance of pain we experience in this life is an opportunity to grow a deeper reliance on God’s peace, comfort, and strength. Every moment of suffering can make us grow stronger. Every time we walk
through
our pain, it deepens the confidence we have in our King to deliver us through
any
circumstance for our growth and His glory.

A wise friend once shared guidelines she considers when faced with a difficult or painful challenge:

Our King loves us so much. He gives each of us His mantle of grace when we go through difficult times. It is His great design that through
our difficult seasons, we will see Him as He truly is—the One who supplies our every need, the One who holds us up by His righteous right hand, the One who suffered death so we would know His life—and be able to share that life with those who are hurting.

When I was lost and felt wounded beyond repair, the Lord used my grandmother to give me refuge and a new beginning. When everything was taken from me, she provided a home, family, love, and encouragement. Any influence I’ve had on the lives of others through the ranch, my testimony, and my relationships would not have been possible without my Mimi. When I had none, she gave me hope.

Many years later I had the privilege of helping to return the favor. I had already received Christ on the day I took my grandmother by the hand and led her down the long aisle to the front of our church. It was there, together, that we knelt and prayed for her to receive the saving grace of Jesus Christ. Because she led me to hope, I was able to lead her to the Author of hope.

Scripture says, “In his kindness God called you to his eternal glory by means of Jesus Christ. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation” (1 Peter 5:10).

When we choose to answer the call of our Lord, we become like a bow in His hands. A bow is useful only when it’s drawn. It’s the drawing, the ability to handle tension, that gives a bow its value. With a little draw, there is little release. Yet each time we submit to God, we expand our trust and faith and grow more flexible, resilient, and strong. Over time we are able to flex into a full draw and know His full release. The bigger the draw, the farther our arrows fly for Him. The farther they fly, the greater the impact we make on the hearts of those around us who need help.

Trust yourself to your King. Rest in knowing your every scar is purposed for His glory. Choose to become a bow in His hands. You’ll discover that as you fight for His hope and truth, He will
never
fail you.

Many years of ski racing had brought me to an exciting pinnacle: I had qualified to compete in the U.S. Olympic Biathlon Team Trials. This unlikely combination of cross-country skate skiing and rifle marksmanship began in Scandinavia. Originating as a practical method of hunting off skis, biathlon also doubled as an effective method of border patrol. Today it’s a challenging sport that blends two contrasting skills.

The Olympic trials for biathlon were to be held in Anchorage, Alaska. I was excited about spending some time in this powerful place. Graced with the financial help of several benevolent friends, I was on my way. During my flight I marveled at the vast sea of powdery white mountains below me. Each shouldered the soft, pinkish lavender mantle of winter twilight. During this peaceful interlude, I had time to reflect on my personal journey and the magnificent chain of events that had brought me to this rare finale.

Unlike the other women I’d be racing with, I would not be vying for a berth on the Olympic team. I was realistic about the fact that I was neither skilled nor experienced enough to compete for our country. But I
had
qualified to race at this level several years before and wasn’t able to fulfill this dream because I couldn’t afford it. Having qualified a second time, I didn’t wish to let the opportunity pass by again.

Of the twenty-nine women who qualified, I would be one of the few competing in these trials who did not race on a sponsored team, have a
coach, or receive subsidized gear or free ski endorsements. I came alone. I would also be, to my knowledge, one of the few women who was not a full-time, elite athlete. Instead, I worked many different jobs to pay for the sport I loved. Several years of regret over missing the trials the first time was enough for me. I’d earned the right to race at this level. That’s all I truly wanted—a chance to try.

Though I had trained hard for this event, the other women had trained much harder for much longer. For them, a great deal was on the line. Years of focused preparation hung in the balance. Each hoped to compete in the Olympics. Because of this, I was aware my nearly random presence might not be welcomed by this tight-knit group even though I knew everyone I’d be racing with.

Upon arriving at the quarters where all the competitors were staying, I looked for any familiar faces that might be able to answer a few questions. I needed to know where the biathletes were staging, if there was transportation to the course, and where the waxing rooms were.

It wasn’t long before I spotted two women I knew. In my excitement I embraced one and stepped toward the other. She abruptly straight-armed me in the chest and snapped, “Don’t
touch
me. I don’t
do
hugs.” I stood back in stunned silence. A smattering of inconsequential words fell between us before they blithely walked away.

So this is how it’s going to be
.

After training on the course for nearly a month while living among the bristle of these territorial women, I welcomed the first race in the series. Slated to be a fifteen-kilometer individual race, it would encompass five skiing loops and four shooting stages, one between each loop. The shooting position for each stage would alternate between prone and standing. With only five bullets to hit five targets, every missed shot would add an additional minute of penalty to the racer’s overall time. With competitors finishing within seconds of one another, the addition of a single minute weighed as heavy as an entire day.

I had trained for years, I had saved the money, I had gotten the time
off work, and I had sacrificed—all for this day. Today was my turn to race in the U.S. Olympic trials.

Excited, I reached the course very early. My prerace habit drove me first to check the start list to see where I’d be in the lineup. I scanned the sheet and felt a faint clench in my chest. I scanned it again … and again.

My name was nowhere to be found.

After a flurry of questions, I finally located the race director and pointed out the error. He acknowledged my revelation with a slight “Huh,” shrugging it off by saying they must have lost my packet of race applications. To my massive relief he concluded, “Since this start list has already been sanctioned, we cannot change it. The only way you can race is if we tack you on last behind all the other women.” Although this wasn’t a desired position, I was grateful to be penciled in and have a chance to race.

Relieved, I skied out to the firing range and began the process of zeroing my rifle. This vital procedure recalibrates a rifle to the greatest degree of accuracy for the present conditions. As expected, the staging area was a complete crush of coaches, equipment, and athletes. Trainers and sponsors hauled out mind-boggling amounts of gear. One area looked like a neon picket fence with what appeared to be dozens of new skis strategically placed side by side for participants who had earned them.

Unlike these women whose sponsors granted them armloads of new skis, boots, poles, and racing attire every season, I would be racing with the same three pairs of skis I’d owned since the start of my career. These skis were priceless to me. Not only were they all I had, but they had been given to me by a dear friend, along with a single pair of perfect graphite poles.

Year after year I’d raced with this same gear. Each piece was a trusted companion. We’d experienced and accomplished so much together. My upper body was a perfect fit to transfer power through this lone pair of poles. My lower body intimately knew the design, balance, and feel of each ski. My skis even bore a handwritten set of initials, a private message
I’d inscribed on the tips to encourage my heart forward when the pain was great. This was not simply my gear. It was a part of me.

Because zeroing is achieved in a prone position, I protected my poles by stowing them in an upright stance along the low fence behind the range. Since I was alone, I was forced to shoot five shots, get up, ski back to a general spotting scope, track where my shots had gone, evaluate the needed clicks to bring the group into zero, make the adjustment, and ski back to the firing line. I repeated this process many times until all shots were within a nickel-size area in the center of the target.

In the crush of athletes and their entourage, a coach began to set up for his team right behind me. I rose to my feet and started to ski back to the fence to reload my clips. As if watching a slow-motion collision and being helpless to stop it, I saw one of his heavy spotting scopes topple over. It landed with a sickening
crunch
directly on my poles!