Bridge Called Hope by Kim Meeder Page A

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    Step by hesitant step, like a little fawn cautiously venturing out into a clearing, she began to speak. If I looked directly at her, she would stop talking. But as soon as I looked straight ahead at our horse, the trickle of words would continue. I was absolutely fascinated by this shy phenomenon.
    I shared with Angelica the young horse’s story and how much suffering he had endured. Her brushing nearly stopped; she was processing that fact. Maybe she was identifying that they were similar in their paths of pain.
    Without looking up she quietly asked, “What’s his name?” Her tone and posture indicated that this was vitally important to her.
    “He doesn’t have one yet. Nearly every horse that comes to the ranch is renamed as a symbolic passage into what we hope will be a better life for them. He is so unique—not only in his story but also his color as well—that he needs a special name. Maybe you can help me name him?”
    Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows and look at me sideways with a little grin.
    The little trickle of words had become a steady flow.
    After grooming his body, cleaning his hooves, and combing out his silky mane and tail, we had completed our task. An uncertain crossroad split before us. I didn’t know how much she was able to do, so instead of asking what she couldn’t do, I asked her what she
wanted
to do.
    In bewilderment, I watched as her countenance fell back to the ground again. Her small eyebrows furrowed together in what looked like a full-on bar fight between her rising anger and plummeting sorrow. Her colliding emotions mounted until her beautiful face began to show the stress of imminent tears. After what felt like long moments, she finally looked up at me. Her expression embodied pure frustration, anger, and sadness all tangled around a wounded little heart that fully understood how unfair it was that her life was going to be far too short.
    It was her eyes that gave her away. The conflict of her illness versus her will raged behind them. Her mortal illness shouted, “I’m sick and it’s getting harder and harder to do the things I love!” while her indomitable will shouted back, “Yeah, but I’m just a little kid, and little kids should get to ride little horses! I just want to be like everyone else who has the chance to ride.”
    The internal balancing act that Angelica had been trying to maintain about her life and her illness completely collapsed into crumbling despair. Her expression shattered into unmistakable brokenness. Without saying a word, the slight upturn of her eyebrows indicated what her pleading heart was truly trying to ask.
    In utter helplessness, I watched as her sky blue eyes filled with glass.
    Finally, in a voice nearly choked out by unshed tears, she squeaked, “I think I should get to ride.”
    “Okay,” I confirmed, as I glanced across the main yard toward Karen. Because the ranch was so quiet, I was certain that she heard Angelica’s request. Her expression clearly registered concern, yet she confirmed Angelica’s mother’s wish: If she is willing to try, allow her to.
    I reached down for Angelica’s hand … and she reached up. Hand in hand, we walked into the tack room.
    “So, what do you think we should name him?” I tossed out while gathering our tack.
    “Hmmmmm, he needs a very special name,” she said with a very thoughtful look.
    I looked out the window at our young horse and continued “He is such a beautiful color, what would you call gold that soft? I think that he looks like what Heaven might look like … I think he looks like the promised land … don’t you?”
    I turned toward Angelica just in time to see her head drop as her little face began to crumple under the weight of intense emotion. Immediately I realized my reckless blunder.
Oh Kim, how could you be so clueless!
Without even thinking, I had shoved my little friend right in the direction that she soon might be going. Understandably, it was clear