Gettin' Back in the Saddle

I'm not trying to run away from

This beautiful life I've been given

I'm not looking for freedom

Maybe just a little meaning here in the middle

Alright, everybody says I'll be alright

Everybody says it's a good fight

I'm not seeing it now

~ Bebo Norman, "The Middle"

Every bone in my body aches as I wearily sink down next to my daughter’s toddler bed.  Fresh jolts of pain shoot through my hips as I try to get comfortable on the floor.  I feel like one of the Dauntless initiates after a fight in Veronica Roth’s book Divergent.  The only thing is, I haven’t been in a fight.  Unless you count the war going on inside my own body.

I open the Jesus Story Book Bible -- the one we read most every night -- and try to smile.  “I wonder what we’re going to learn about?” I say, failing to disguise my fatigue.  I’ve already recruited big sister Hannah to read the story, and my hubby, but she doesn't want them.  “I REALLY NEED MY MOMMY TO READ IT TO ME!” I hear from downstairs.  So, I relent, putting one foot in front of the other until I reach the top of the stairs and finally enter her bedroom.  Call it love, call it defeat, I don’t care.  I just want her to go to sleep.  David comes to the door and says, “You’ve got a good Mama, Clara.”  “I know THAT!” she replies confidently.  Well, at least two people in the room are convinced.  What kind of “good mama” often lays on the couch while the 3-year old daughter she’s “staying home with” watches TV or plays by herself?  What “good mama” quietly grits her teeth when she asks, “Who made this pizza, Mom?” while helping peel the wrapper off the frozen pizza we are eating for dinner yet again?  What “good mama” needs three scalding hot baths a day and has children who argue over whose turn it is to bring her cold packs?
But I digress.  I continue reading, mostly without thinking about the words.  Then I read the following about a Mighty King coming to earth: “This Child was a new kind of king.  Though he was the Prince of Heaven, He had become poor.  Though He was the Mighty God, He had become a helpless baby.  The King hadn’t come to be the boss.  He had come to be a servant” (Lloyd-Jones, 198).  Wait a minute:  am I reading this for my daughter, or am I reading it for me?
The truth is, I need the Gospel anew every day.  The age-old story that I’ve heard thousands of times rings fresh on my ears.  Poor.  Helpless.  Servant.  That’s the King I follow.  That’s the King who died for ME!  That’s the King I want to be like.
I think back to the events of the past couple weeks.  I’ve started to feel improvement physically and emotionally in some areas, but then new problems begin to crop up.  I feel caught between the mountaintops and the valleys, longing for a plateau, at least.  I’m gaining some ground in Biblical counseling, and add in a few sessions of equine therapy (thanks for the encouragement, Miss Pru!).  
It’s a natural fit for me to use horses to work toward healing.  I had a little Shetland my grandma gave me when I was 8 (lucky me!), and went to horse camp as a middle-schooler (bareback dollar game, anyone?).  I’ve always enjoyed riding, and have especially fond memories of riding with David in the Remarkable mountains of New Zealand on our honeymoon.  When we had 3 little ones, our friends the Yerringtons surprised us after church with a couples’ ride in nearby state park (even packing an elegant picnic).  When I wrote in to the Christian radio station for a contest about a way someone had loved you like Jesus, we all won a private Matthew West concert.  Anyway, I’ve ridden a couple times since then, mostly boring trail rides, but it’s been a few years since I’ve been in the saddle.  The idea of therapy and riding intrigues me, so I begin.

Vanessa and Blacky (with Ya-Ya's poodle "Tangie"), circa 1987

I decide to ride bareback, so I can feel the horse beneath me.  I focus on breathing, tensing and relaxing certain muscles.  I clench my fists, then open them wide, releasing all my pain back to God.  I begin to trot to the music, feeling a little freer, more alive as I listen to the following song blaring through the stereo inside the ring:

This is a call to all the dead and disappointed 
The ones who feel like they are done 
This is a word to all the ones who feel forgotten 
But you are not 
Oh you are not
We’re alive, alive, alive we’re singing 
We’re alive, alive, alive and we’re shaken 
We’re alive, alive, alive, alive in You
We are soaked in all the grace that we’ve been given 
Unchained from all that we have done 
Your mercy’s rising like the sun on the horizon 
We’re coming home
~ “Alive” by All Sons and Daughters

I recall my carefree memories of riding.  Times when “chronic pain” and “fibromyalgia” and “depression” and “anxiety” were distant words on a page.  Words I could never understand ... until now.  Tears stream down my cheeks, and I cannot wipe them away, but I don’t mind.  I’m alive!  I’m in control of something in my life.  Finally!
Then it happens.  The horse makes a slight turn just when I realize I’m trotting a bit too fast for my comfort and skill level (or lack thereof).  It happens in slow motion, yet all at once.  I’m on the ground, wind knocked out of me, shocked.  The instructor tells me to just sit up slowly for a minute.  Without thinking, I blurt out, “I can’t believe I screwed up!  Again!”  We quickly ascertain there are no serious injuries but a bruised and scraped up arm and a sore butt.  “Just what I need, Lord!” I cry angrily in my heart.  “More pain!  This was supposed to be HELPING me deal with the pain, not adding to it!”  The instructor asks if I’d like to walk the horse around the ring for a bit.  “No,” I say firmly.  “I”m getting back on the horse.”  She smiles quietly and signals me on.  I’m tentative at first, still aching and winded, but I’m focused, single-minded.  I will face this fear.  I will overcome.  Jesus will be my Strength.
I manage to make it through the session without falling off again.  The next session, I opt for the saddle.  Emboldened by my improvement, I take the horse out to the fields.  For a few moments, I am free.  It’s just me, the horse, the mountains, and swaying grass.  I wonder if there will be horseback riding in heaven.
As I dismount, the instructor says she sees a change in my demeanor.  She actually calls my riding “beautiful.”
And I see my dreams coming alive in my daughter, Hannah, who loves horses.  When I see her face delight in riding, I whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.”  Recently, she jumped over a cavaletti for the first time, but by accident.  “I was terrified and excited all at the same time!” she exclaims.  I know the feeling, and it *is* glorious -- a glimpse of heaven.  I may not be able to return to those carefree days of riding myself, but I can understand and share in her joy.  THAT’S a “good mama.”

Maybe a “good mama” is also the one who calls her big brother when she needs help.  Who lets him be “Daddy” for a week to his nieces and nephews.  Who laughs when he teaches them the pull-my-finger-fart trick while they fall over in hysterics at the breakfast table.  Who feels relieved when he has lunch with them at school or takes them on a “date.”  Who asks him to install motion lighting around the house, so her family will be safer due to some recent car break-ins in our neighborhood.  Who praises God when he connects with her son over sports.  Who takes him to church to pray over some tough issues together.  Who shows her kids that adult siblings can still be friends and support each other, even when they don't talk often and live far away.
My bro left the following note for David on his bed at the end of the week:
“What a blessed trip!  Vacation more than work ... you are much appreciated as a father and husband and brother-in-law.  Vanessa and I had a lot of fun, you are loved by all.  Thanks for taking great care of her.  See you in Michigan hopefully, or next time I will bring all the Matsos kids!  God is great!
Lots of roses ....
Uncle Nate"
http://youtu.be/vfmRboTZYZo (Coach Nate teaching Caleb how to play football)
With people like that in my life, I don’t have to be the “good mama” all the time.  I can trust God to take care of my family when I’m unable.  I can celebrate the beauty of the life I have before me every day.  Sometimes, I just have get back in the saddle to enjoy the view.

~ I dedicate this post to my big brother, Nathan Kalon.  Though he is not without flaws and struggles (like all of us), he is one of the most generous people I've ever known and has a huge heart.  I love you, bro!