For the Love of a Horse

Boredom drove me from my dorm room this afternoon into my white Bravada, through Dillon, down graveled Frying Pan Road, and to the J and S Sporthorse Equestrian Center where the UM Western’s equestrian team hosted a hunter/jumper horse show this weekend. As I pulled into the headquarters of the center, there weren’t many vehicles or horses. I was rather disappointed, but not too surprised. This is Montana, and you can’t expect much else.

I parked my Bravada behind the facilities and walked past the indoor arena to the outdoor ring where the equestrian team members were readjusting the jumps for another course. While that took place I admired the few horses being walked in the area and eavesdropped on conversations about the show. Apparently I had made it in time for the last few classes, and then the show would be over for the day.

When the competitions resumed, there were only three competitors - - number 68 was a bearded man on a massively-built bay gelding called Grasshopper, number 103 was a lady in her fifties or sixties who rode a feisty blue roan named The Other Half, and number 72 was a younger, blond woman on a fine-boned black-and-white paint horse called Arctic Moon. There was a friendly camaraderie among the trio as they teased and congratulated one another, but they still took the competition seriously, carefully checking and balancing their horses before the jumps, which consisted mostly of white-washed boards or pine poles stuck between painted posts and some shrubbery.

The dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves swirled around my legs as I leaned against the rails and watched. I wished that I could be one of the riders, sitting in two-point position over the pommel of a saddle, the leather reins rubbing the skin between my third and fourth fingers, my calves warm from the heat of my horse’s body, my cheeks red from the wind sweeping between his pricked ears, my throat dry and scratchy from the whirling sand. But more than anything, I just wanted to touch a horse. To extend my hand to his nostril and feel his hot, moist breath dampen my fingers as he took in my scent. To stroke his muzzle, soft as a child’s skin, and trace the veins running along his cheekbone to his jowl. To pat his sweat-lathered neck, to smell the steam rising off him.

Honestly, that was probably what lured me to the show today more than anything else. I wanted to be near enough a horse to smell him. Perhaps it’s a strange concept to some people, but to me, the scent of horses has the same alluring, comforting quality as the scent of home-baked bread, or perking coffee, or the lilacs in the garden, or the zest of a mountain wind. It’s a scent that brings me home, no matter how many hundreds or thousands of miles away I am - - home to a prairie grass pasture with a chestnut Arabian mare who lifts her head from grazing, a few strands of grass still emerging from the corners of her mouth, and ambles over to me to nuzzle my jean pockets for horse treats.

Today, this was as close as I could come to home.

After the competitions were finished, I wandered into the indoor riding arena where three ladies were working their horses. I found out from a women sitting on the bleachers that two of the riders had competed at Grand Prix level - - one in dressage and the other in jumping - - and that both were now trainers. It isn’t every day that you meet such talent in Montana and have a free opportunity to watch them perform. The younger of the two trainers rode dressage - - which is a sort of horse ballet - - on a well-proportioned black Canadian Warmblood who side-stepped and occasionally resisted while his master trained him on delicate and demanding movements. The other woman, a pert, laughing rider, worked as a happy-go-lucky team with her gray Spanish Andalusian gelding, popping over the two jumps in the middle of the arena and cantering in miniscule circles. The other girl in the arena, who was about my age, rode a paint-colored, draft-cross mare that placidly trotted and cantered as her novice rider asked.

I was mesmerized, but a part of me kept begging to do more, to not leave this ranch without at least touching a horse.

The lady with the Andalusian finished her ride and headed out of the arena. My heart jumped in my throat and I seized my opportunity. “May I pet your horse?” I asked. She didn’t hear me. I hesitated, wondering if I should ask again. I stepped closer. “May I please pet your horse?”

This time she heard me. “Of course!” She halted him so I could approach. “Are you a horsey-girl?” she asked.

I laughed. “Yes.” I let him sniff my hand, and then rubbed the broad forehead and the knob above his eyes. He was beautiful, and so gentle-mannered. His neck was damp and sticky with sweat, and his sweet scent filled my head.

Tears stung the back of my eyes as I pet the sweet creature. I kept thinking of my horse at home, almost three hundred miles away. I wished that I was there, swinging onto her back, listening to her hooves plop against the dirt, feeling her rough strings of mane run through my fingers.

Horses are a part of my life; they’re part of my identity. Ask anybody who knows me, and they’ll be sure to tell you I’m horse-crazy. Visit my dorm room and see the calendar cut-outs galloping on my walls; take a look at my bed and the three stuffed horses waiting to curl up with me at night; glance over the drawings in my art book, almost all of horses.

The truth is, as I drove away from the equestrian center today, I realized that I don’t want to get so caught up with the more profitable or logical routes that I leave behind one of the few things that fuel my passion for life as much as writing does.

I don’t want to live a life without horses.

What does this mean for my future? I’m honestly not sure. Perhaps it means switching from a Secondary Education English major to a double major in English and Natural Horsemanship. Maybe it means working long, hard hours this summer so I can pay boarding fees for a horse. Maybe it means investing my spare time here at college into studying equitation books. I suppose only time will tell.

But one thing I do know. When I go home this week, I’m going to run out to the pasture, find my horse, wrap my arms around her neck, breathe in the scent of her skin, feel her whiskers tickle my palm as I feed her a treat, listen to her crunch it to bits, and then laugh at her as she nuzzles my pockets for more. I will saddle her and ride in the shifting shadows of the woods, and no longer will I be jealous of the riders I saw today.

I will have my own mare between my legs, and my heart will soar higher than the tallest jumps that they have ever cleared. And life will be beautiful, simply because I love a horse.

Cody Keeps Walking

I saw something incredible today.

Normally I use the treadmill in the PE complex here at Western during my lunch break because the machines are open and few people come through at that time. Today, however, I spent my lunch break at the Welcome Fair, so I didn't exercise until mid-afternoon. As I entered the cardio room, a few people were working out, including a young man on the middle of three treadmills. I took the machine behind him and started walking. Despite the book in front of my nose, I couldn't help but notice the diligent effort of the man in front of me. He was walking faster and faster, so quickly that I was surprised he never broke into a jog. He leaned forward slightly, hands gripping the side rails and front rails of the machine. Unlike most people who come to the gym, he wasn't listening to an Ipod. He was walking, completely devoted to the task at hand. Purpose jounced every stride; I never saw him falter.

Eventually he slowed into cool down mood. I was immersed in my biology book and paid little attention to him until the machine stopped. Then he backed off the machine. I had never seen anyone do that before, and it puzzled me. Why would anyone back off, still handling the rails as he went? He turned toward the wall and I assumed he was going to stretch. But no. He reached out and took hold of something that I had overlooked before.

A cane.

I watched as he turned around and walked out of the room, rolling the ball-point end of the cane in front of him. Another girl called, "Good-bye, Cody." He replied and carefully felt his way out of the room, and, I assume, down the flights of stairs leading from the third level to the first. There is no elevator.

My book was forgotten. I never would have guessed he was blind.

How much courage does it take for him to do this? How far does he have to walk to get here? Has he ever fallen on those stairs? Has he ever flown off the treadmill ramp?

Honestly, it's humbling. Sometimes I think life's hard for me. I get frustrated, discouraged. I run out of time or energy. Something pushes me beyond my usual limits. I'm challenged more than I want to be. And what do I do? Sometimes I might face it with a good attitude, but many times I don't. Discouragment, grumbling, complaining, distress, anxiety - - they overtake and shake me. I falter, I fumble, I hesitate, I balk like a goat getting a bath.

And Cody keeps walking.

I wonder if God is warning me about something - - I wonder if He's hinting that my life is going to become challenging very soon. This week has been fairly easy so far with a day off of school and small amounts of homework. But I'm sure it won't always be that way.

And maybe He's humbling me, reminding me that no matter how much praise I receive in class for my writing, I am still weak in other ways. So many other ways. I am nothing; I have nothing of my own to be proud of. God's strength is what has brought me here, and it is God's strength that will carry me through.

There will be days when I feel as if I'm walking blind. God, what am I doing here? Nothing's going right. What do You want from me? I don't have the strength or courage to do this!

And Cody keeps walking.

Will I? When life wraps me in her errotic cadences that blind me to anything further than the next day, will I continue to follow God's direction? Even when I'm not quite sure where He's leading, and all I know is that the ground is rolling, rolling, rolling beneath my feet, and that I'm getting somewhere because He's leading me? Will I press on, head up, shoulders back, hands clasped to the Guidelines, eyes on the horizon that I can or cannot see?

Cody keeps walking.

Will I?

Did You Know...

that change is in the air?
that my world is spinning ever faster?
that something incredible is happening?
that this is the end of one journey?
and the beginning of another?
that I hardly know what to type I am so excited?
that maybe, just maybe, I'm really on the right course?
that God is going to do great things?
that I'm delighted?
that I'm frightened?
that there's a sharp bend in the road ahead?
and I can't see past it?
but God can?

Did you know?

Divine Opportunities

So often, when faced with daily choices, we look at them from a logical, human point-of-view. "Which choice makes the most sense? What are the pro's and con's?" And in our furrowed brows and whirling thoughts, we tend to overlook God. We forget that He works in marvelous ways, and that what He requests of His disciples may not always seem like the most logical thing in our minds:

He told the already outnumbered Israelites (led by Gideon) to get rid of even more men.

He told Abraham to murder his own son.

He told Noah to build an ark when rain had never before fallen on Earth.

He told Peter to walk on water.

He told the fishermen to leave their jobs and follow Him instead.

Sometimes God gives us opportunites that are strange, incredible, or almost nonsensical. But who am I to say no? Who am I to put my own fears and hesitancies before God's commands? What selfishness! What faithlessness! God is offering me a new opportunity, a new adventure. And I am a girl who seeks adventure - - new ideas, new stories, new changes, new journeys.

So who am I to say no?

Arise, Sheep

“Come on, mama; get up!” I urged. The ewe made no effort to move as I shoved and pushed on her hip. I gave up with a disgusted grimace. Silly sheep. She had two hungry, wet, newborn lambs to lick off and she laid there acting as if she were paralyzed!

As I did my best to dry off the lambs and get some milk into them, a verse kept circling in my head. “Arise, for this matter is your responsibility. We also are with you. Be of good courage and do it.” (Ezra 10:4) It seemed to fit the situation perfectly. But as I thought about it, I got the guilty feeling that God may think the same thing about us as Christians. Do we really shirk our duties as badly as this ewe was hers?

“Arise.” The ewe wouldn’t even get up. If she stood, then I could at least suckle the lambs on her. But no, she had to lie on the straw like a hundred-and-fifty-pound duffel bag. How frustrating. Am I that awful for God sometimes? “Nope. I’m not gonna do it.” Flop! I cross my legs and arms and shut my eyes. With the sheep, I put the new lamb in front of her and she turned her head away. With me, God’s will for my life is directly under my nose and I resolutely ignore it. And God’s command for us in such instances is “Arise. I have a job for you to do so get up and do it.”

Our wary response is, “Why?” God’s reply:

“Because it’s your responsibility.”

It’s not an option. Those lambs couldn’t be neglected and expected to survive. They needed a mother, and it was her job to take care of them. It wasn’t an, “Oh, if you think you can handle it,” sort of thing. No rancher could make a living that way! Each animal pulls its own weight; each mother is expected to raise her young. That’s the way God made sheep - - the mammy raises her lambs. And God made us in the same way. He has jobs and responsibilities for us to do. They’re not options; they’re what He specifically designed us for. He has made us for a purpose. So what are we going to do about it? Are we going to insist that we don’t have a God-given mission in life and go our own merry way instead? Or are we going to stand up and do our job? If that ewe refused to take care of her lambs, I would have had two orphan lambs to deal with. And while I could raise them up, I could never have tended them as well as she could. The same goes for our God-given responsibilities. Sure, we can pass them off on somebody else, but no one else can do them just the way we can. Perhaps nobody can give the job the perfect touch that God placed within our own fingertips.

Maybe the task is daunting. The ewe was tired, she had two noisy lambs in front of her, she wasn’t used to being confined in a jug, and she had never had lambs before. But she wasn’t alone. “We also are with you.” I had helped her with the lambs; I dried the lambs off and gave them milk; I tried to boost her on her feet. I was willing to help her, and I did all in my power to do so. And you know what? The same is true in our Christian lives. When we look at our task and shake our heads in disbelief, Christ is right there at our side with His hand on our shoulder. We’re not alone. He’s going to help us every step of the way; He’s going to offer us His own strength and nourishment and protection and love. He’s not neglecting us. He’s not deserting us. He promised, “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”
And God always keeps His promises.

I did the best I could for my stubborn sheep. Finally I gave her some peace and quiet and let nature takes its course. She did eventually accept her lambs like a good mother. Maybe she just had to come her senses. Maybe she had to calm down and recuperate. Regardless, she is now raising two healthy lambs. And that’s what God wants of us. “Be of good courage and do it.” Yes, stepping out on a limb for God does take courage. We have to determine to obey God’s command for each Christian to “deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow Me” whatever the cost. And then - - no backing down! No giving up! Arise. Take that first step. And the second and the third. And don’t stop until you have fulfilled your responsibility. Rely on God. Rest in His presence. Draw from His abundant grace. Do what you were meant to do.

A sheep can do it. Why can’t we?

Say Good-bye

I never have liked good-byes. I’d much rather jump from that last laugh to the greeting hug. I’d love to just fast forward over the sad, fare-thee-well parts.

But what about those times when I won’t see somebody again?

What if this is the last good-bye?

I don’t think I’d want to miss that good-bye. I’m sure I’d regret it. “I didn’t tell her I loved her. I didn’t tell him I’d miss him. I didn’t tell her how much she meant to me. I didn’t even say, ‘Good-bye.’”

There’s something almost unreal about that last good-bye. I look into someone’s eyes and hope she knows everything that I can’t find the words to say. I whisper good-bye and my tears say so much more.

Yes, this good-bye hurts the most. And I’ve had my share of them, even if they were only with animals. When you’re raised as a secluded home-school student, your animals are your best friends. You love them more than anything. And saying good-bye is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

Sometimes saying good-bye feels like your heart is being torn out of you. My first 4-H lamb, Champ, was my puppy dog of a lamb. He followed me everywhere, did everything I asked. We won the showmanship contest together, and I couldn’t have been more proud of him. On Saturday I walked him into the sale ring and cheerfully showed him off to the bidders. I don’t think the realization that I was losing him had hit home yet. But as I walked back into the barn, some men who were helping sort the sale animals literally took him out of my hands and put him in a pen with other sheep. For a moment I was shocked, and then I burst into tears. I had lost him. The empty halter was given back to me and Champ called from the pen while I cried in my mom’s arms. I went to Champ and he quieted down in my hands. Still crying, I kissed him and told him good-bye. Then I left and later he was loaded onto the trailer for auction. I never can forget that lamb. I find it almost ridiculous how close I came to crying while writing this short paragraph.

Last good-byes won’t be forgotten.

You don’t always see the last good-bye coming. One year, my grandparents took my sister and me on a trip to Yellowstone. I don’t remember how or if we said good-bye to the critters. Maybe we gave them an extra pet or kiss, or maybe we shouted “good-bye” as we ran from the barn. Maybe we treated that morning just like any other. When we returned home a few days later, Mom met us with tears. Squeak, one of the goat kids, had died while we were gone. Leah and I both burst into tears and the beautiful day was ruined. That night I tossed and turned and cried and wished with all my heart that when I woke up in the morning, sweet little Squeak would still be in the barn to greet me.

Last good-byes aren’t an always an option.

Other times, the last good-bye occurs when your hope is dying along with something you love, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. All you can do is cry. Peppermint was Leah’s goat, and one of the original does that we bought. A few weeks after kidding season, she became extremely ill. We took her to the vet, who sent us home with IV’s and other medicines for her. We followed that treatment for some time, and then brought her back to the vet for a check-up. She seemed to be doing better that day and actually nibbled on some food. We returned home with joyful spirits and eager hearts. When we opened the trailer door to unload her, she was going into convulsions. Mom sent Leah to the house while she and I decided what to do. Every time we moved Peppy, she convulsed worse. We knew we had to put her down. Sobbing, we did so. She was gone. Just like that. There was no holding on, no second chance, no other options.

Last good-byes are irreversible.

I don’t think anybody truly desires a last good bye, but sometimes you have to make that decision yourself. Sometimes you are the one who decides to let go. Poptart, Peppermint’s sister, was my beloved goat. About four months after Peppermint’s death, Poptart became sick. The only thing we could figure out was that the feed we had given her was bad. We treated her as best we could, but she only went downhill. On September 1, I told Mom and Papa that it was time for her to go. They asked me if I was sure, and suggested I wait until that afternoon to make my final decision. I agreed. When I chored that afternoon, I knelt next to Poptart and stroked her. She was lying down, staring at the wall and grinding her teeth. It was like she didn’t even see me or know I was there. White rimmed her eyes, and that terrified me, because Peppy’s eyes had shown that same white when she was dying. I couldn’t bear to see my precious Poppers suffer like that. I knew we had to put her down. In a way, that was both the easiest and hardest decision I have ever made. It was the easiest because I knew I had no option. I was compelled to put her down in order to keep her from suffering. But it was also the hardest decision because I was making the decision to end a life - - a life that I loved so very much. Although God used that experience for good, the pain still lingers. Letting go is never an easy thing to do, especially when it is for ever.

Last good-byes hurt.

Eventually the pain wears off. We think we’ve overcome the agony of loss and that it is only a thing of the past. But then we see a picture of the loved one, or we tell a story about them. All of a sudden, the pain comes back. It might not be so powerful, and we might not break down in tears, but we remember. And we hurt all over again. We realize how much we’ve lost, and how much of our heart died when we said good-bye. Alexander Pope said, “How often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part.” Maybe that is one reason why good-byes pain us so much. Each time we say “good-bye”, a part of ourselves is being torn away as well.

And sometimes, that piece is gone forever.

Life is a series of hello’s and good-bye’s. Each morning dawns with new opportunities, discoveries, joys, and sorrows. And each night brings the last good-bye to yet another day of our lives. We can’t escape the cycle. Birth and life abound, but so do death and sorrow. We cannot have one without the other, at least not in this world.

Many more good-byes await me, I know. And some of those will be “the last good-bye.” I will still cry, I will still ache, and I will still wish there were some easier way. But there isn’t, and because of that, I will face these moments with a determined, if a resigned, spirit. I do not have to be joyful about death, but I cannot ignore it either. Each good-bye will come in its own perfect timing. Hurt as it may, I won’t miss one. I will remember the death, and I will remember the life. I will love and still let go. I will set them free and still hold them close. I will remember, and I promise I won’t forget.

Dead Men's Bones

Matthew 23:27 “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which indeed appear beautiful outwardly, but inside are full of dead men’s bones and all uncleanness.”

Dead men’s bones. I’m afraid this phrase captured me as soon as I read it. It touched me in a way that almost made me squirm. Because it’s true, and because these bones are inside of me.

These bones are the “old man” that Christ came to save me from. They are the last remnants of something evil or wrong or destructive that was once alive and once very much a part of me. And now, dead, they are still very much a part of me. They are the terrible, ugly, festering secrets that I keep locked inside. They are the dreadful truths about myself that I can ignore or hide when I’m with others.
But when I’m alone, they rise up like ghosts from the past, reminding me, haunting me, tormenting me - - telling me that I still have this dead person “living” inside of me, that it is still very much a part of who I am. All the old regrets; the wretched minutes of my short history that cost me so much; the “unChristian” feelings of depression, hatred, and bitterness that overwhelm me when I am weak. It all makes me feel so worthless, dirty, impure, and…dead.

When people see me, I don’t think they glimpse the dead men stirring inside. They see something else entirely. I know because there is one compliment which, directly or indirectly, I have often received over the past several years. And that is that I am always smiling. When they see me, they see joy. And that thrills me to my soul because that is what I want people to see in my life. Joy truly is a part of who I am, thanks so much to Jesus, and I want it to absolutely radiate from my life so that others can experience Him, too.

But I’m not always joyful inside. Sometimes it is when I am laughing the hardest that I am hurting the most.

I don’t think that dead men’s bones are supposed to be a part of our lives. Actually, I’m sure they’re not, being as they’re listed as a hypocritical flaw. But living without those destructive ghosts of the past would be so incredible…. I’m not sure if I can even imagine it. There would be such freedom. Relief. Healing. Wholeness. Genuine joy.

But how do I do away with those old bones? I have tried before and failed. Just when I think I have the bodies locked away in their caskets, the tops begin to creak open. And I can’t shut them all at once, no matter how hard I try. So the tops open wide, and the skeletons of my past arise more hideous than before.

There has to be a way to demolish these bones. And I know that there is. I know that I have to go to God; I know that I have to let go. So why do I cling to them? Why do I dwell on these miseries of my past? Is it because I like to feel ugly, worthless, and tarnished? Good heavens, no! Then why - - why when God is offering me new life - - do I cling to the old one?

Maybe it is because of shame. I know that those bones are part of who I once was and, try as I might to forget it, life won’t let me. A rift in a relationship, the hurt in someone’s eye, the innocent comment of a friend, the uprising of painfully well-known feelings, a cruel memory - - they all remind me that the effects of those once living bones reach far into my future. I look ahead and wonder if I can ever outlive or outgrow them. Painful reality tells me no.

I cannot do it on my own. God, maybe it’s time I really did let go. But how do I let go of the shame? I know that You have forgiven me, but can the others? Or will their looks and words torment me forever? God, how can I overcome the shame of life itself?

Dear God, please help. I’m ready to move on. I’m tired of being destroyed from the inside out. Please forgive me, God. Please forgive my wretchedness. “As far as the east is from the west….” Dear Lord, please take these dead men’s bones and bury them. Wipe away the shame that plagues me.

Dear Lord, I want to be free. I want to be clean. I want to be so full of You that there is no room for anything else. Please fill my mind and heart with good things; help me to dwell on You.

Dear God, please help me to let go.

I Wish on Fireflies

There aren’t any stars here. That’s why I wish on fireflies.

Everybody has wishes. Everybody has dreams, even here in the dark hole where I live. Nothing special ever happens here. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same routine day in and day out. You wake up and get dressed. Sometimes you peek out the window to see if the sun has broken through. But it never has. The smog lies so heavy over the city that, even by midday, it’s barely a gray haze. And in the morning, it looks like midnight. So, if you did have the courage to peer outside, you drop the curtain with a sigh and face reality once again. You pull on your starched, clean uniform – the one you wear every single day, just like everybody else wears their uniform – and trudge outside. You go to work in the factories, laboring over the machinery that cough out those wretched fumes that block out the sun. And you work there all day, doing your job, talking small talk, losing yourself in the hypnosis of unending routine. You’re in a daze, and you can’t escape it because if you did, then you would never be able to endure your job. Your shift ends, you gather your things, and you walk back home. It’s no lighter now than it was when you left your house this morning. The sky is dusky and sullen and the air itself is so thick that the street lights can barely penetrate. You’re walking in a silent, cold, strangely vague world in which you’re completely detached from the person only two feet to your left, the person you work alongside of every day, the person you laugh and chat with on the way home, the person who you know is as blind and soul-dead as you are. You part ways on the street corner and you go into your own house. Two of your family members hold the same shift as you so you all share dinner together. Then you go to your separate rooms for the rest of the evening.

And that’s when the trouble starts. That’s when IT comes alive. As soon as your door clicks shut behind you, IT wakes up. The tiny little part inside of you that you’ve buried all day, that’s been squashed under demands and expectations and rituals and darkness and normal life. That tiny little thing called your soul. That tiny little flame called hope. That tiny little something that is completely different than what “ordinary” calls for.

IT flares up inside of you, igniting dreams, hopes, regrets, passions…emotions that you can’t afford if you want to exist in this misery. So you cringe, shut your eyes, clench your jaw, and try to shake these thoughts out of your head. And then, for just a moment, you give in. You listen to that hope, to that feebly beating life of your soul. You remember what it used to be like to dream. You remember what love, connection, and friendship once meant to you. You remember the passion that used to drive life before you became caught up in this vicious, endless circle of day-to-day existence. And then you look at the clock and you remember that another dull, heartless morning awaits you. So you crawl into bed, let a few teardrops slip from your eyes, and dive into the nothingness of sleep that manages to temporarily dull the ache of your soul.

At least, that’s how it works for most of you. I know that’s how it used to be for me. Each mundane day ended in with a bitter ache in my heart. I had dreams, too. Dreams, hopes, regrets, tears…my heart promised me that there was so much more to life, so much more than I could ever grasp! And it was all out of my reach. It was like looking through a filthy window and being told to pluck the flower you can barely see on the other side. You know the flower’s there - - as long as your mind’s not playing tricks on you - - and you also know that you can never reach it. And that’s what causes all the heartache.

It’s there. And it’s out of your reach.

Wishes don’t come true simply because you want them to. Think about all the fairy tales. So many of those characters had wishes and dreams of their own, but they couldn’t do anything about them until they had something to wish upon. Belle longed to return to the Beast, but until she wore the ring he gave her, she couldn’t wish herself home. Cinderella dreamed of going to the Grand Ball, but it wasn’t until she met her magical fairy godmother that her wish was granted. The poor boy Aladdin wanted to win the hand of the princess, but he didn’t have the means of doing so until Genie granted him three wishes.

We all have wishes, but we have to wish on something to make them come true. Legend tells us to wish upon a star. “Star bright, starlight; first star I see to tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.”

But what happens when you can’t see a single star? Ever?

Most people would tell you to forget about it. Quit chasing fantasy and settle for reality. That’s at least the message I got when, night after night, I stared at an unrelenting canopy of darkness. I didn’t want to accept the fact that there aren’t always stars in this world I live in, that dreams don’t always come true, that wishes were hopeless without a star.

I almost had given up hope that night I got up the gumption to pull back the curtains one last time before I went to bed. Something inside of me said I was foolish, there wouldn’t be anything there, I would just be disappointing myself. And yet my hand trembled with the persistent “what if.” What if, for even a split second, I could see a single star? So I pulled back the curtain and I saw….THEM.

Fireflies.

And they nearly took my breath away. They weren’t dull electric lights. They weren’t dimmed by the murky air. And they weren’t methodically, rhythmically, tediously following a set course. They were flitting hither and thither, shining and shimmering. They were beautiful. They were out of the ordinary.

And they were my Stars.

Stars that promised hope. Hope that things could be different. Hope that there was always a bit of brightness somewhere in the dark. Hope that daily living didn’t have to drag the life out of a soul. Hope that there was something more. Hope that wishes do come true.

Maybe I’ll never have any stars in my life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have fireflies. Sometimes life doesn’t hand you the big grand things you want. So you take what you can get. I get fireflies. I don’t see them every night; often I look out my window and wonder if they ever were really there. But then, on the nights that I truly, desperately need them, they show up. Blinking, dancing, hoping, promising….

I know that someday my wishes will come true. I know that someday my hopes will be fulfilled.

That’s why I wish on fireflies.