Bridge Called Hope by Kim Meeder

own body. My friend shared with me that the oldest previous survivor of this condition died at the age of nine … our little friend was ten.
    After making arrangements for both of them to come to the ranch for a visit, I hung up the phone and just stopped.
    It is so easy to be sidetracked by the difficulties in our life and completely miss how incredibly precious every minute is … 
every
minute.
    Days later, when the ranch was quietly closed, my friend Karen arrived with her young companion. When the little “adopted sparrow” slipped out of the car, from a distance, she looked like every neighbor’s little cutie next door. She was beautiful. Her slender frame was topped with wavy blond hair and intense blue eyes. Appropriately, her name was Angelica.
    As she approached, every step seemed to carry her farther under a cloak of acute shyness. When she finally stood before me, her timid demeanor prevented her from even looking up.
    Together, all three of us walked slowly over to one of the picnic tables on the ranch. Even though she was slightly behind me, I was very aware of how labored her breathing was.
    When we reached the table, I chose to sit across from Angelica so I could get to know her a little better before we started our day. Immediately I could see that this was far too much engagement for her. Karen saw it too, and gracefully excused herself, releasing Angelica to perhaps speak more freely.
    My new little friend could manage only to look straight down at the table or the ground. All of my questions about her life, her family, her pets were met with a near silent shrug or nod.
How many times has she been through this, Lord?
I wondered, as I continued to observe her fidgeting uneasiness. It was then that I noticed it. Although extremely faint, it was certainlythere; encircling her lips was a very pale “halo” of blue.
    I didn’t know weather this bluish ring was a result of her condition or a response to her rising level of stress. The one thing I did understand was that this type of “communication” between us was not working at all. I needed to shift gears fast.
    “Hey, I’ve been told that you and I have something in common. We are both horse-crazy! I was so glad to hear that about you because I have a young horse that just came to the ranch not long ago, and he is in great need of ‘horse-crazy girl love’ … do you think you could spare some?”
    Her blue eyes began to lift. She did not look at me, but instead looked around for the horse I had just described to her.
    “How about if we go to the tack room and get a halter for the new young horse that needs some of your attention?”
    At this question, she did look directly at me. It was brief, like a little spark arcing across toward a like conduit. As small as it was, it became the tiny current of commonality between us. Together, we slowly walked toward the tack room to get a halter.
    In the short time that my “pale boy” had been at the ranch, he had consistently demonstrated remarkable poise and quietness for such a young horse. He presented more like a much older soul … all except for his relentless curiosity, which drew him like an unseen magnet to explore
everything
.
    As we walked into the quarantine paddock, I was pleased to see that he not only turned to face Angelica, but actually took a few steps toward her as well. He was so gentle with her that I chose to allow her to lead him alone. I walked closely behind Angelica to assist her if she needed my help. She didn’t.
    Although it cost her physically, she seemed pleased that she accomplished the simple chore alone. Once at the hitching post, we retrieved a brush bucket from the barn and began hisgrooming process. We stood side by side, both brushing the same part of the horse’s belly. The rhythmic motion seemed to have a comforting effect on her.
    “I love horses …” she volunteered.
    With raised brows, I looked at her sideways and smiled. “Me too,” I