By Kim Meeder
During a routine visit to Bend Equine Medical Center, Dr. Jessie Evans pulled me aside and said, “Come and meet our newest patient.” I followed her down the main corridor of the hospital, a hallway so familiar to me that it nearly felt like home. Stopping at a stall on the left, my eyes dropped a second before my mouth did. On the floor, nestled in deep pine shavings, lay a tiny foal. With both front legs splinted and wrapped from hoof to shoulder, the beleaguered little creature looked more like a stiff-legged tin man than an infant horse.
Hearing our soft voices, the chocolate colored colt rolled up to his sternum to greet us. Shavings dotting his coat like confetti. Even though he was besotted with bed-head—or body in his case, I nearly took a step backward when he turned to look at me fully. Instantly, I could feel my throat tighten with emotion. He resembled one of the most beloved horses the ranch has ever had—and lost. He looked like . . .
Syngin.
Syngin was a gelding that was adored by every soul who had the privilege of meeting him. He was uniquely intuitive, charming, engaging and made everyone who spent time with him feel like he secretly loved them the most. He was a foundational horse in our riding program. Last summer, complications from a severe colic ended his life. As with any loss, one learns to go on, but the heart is often held in a unique place of mourning.
Snapping me out of my unexpected rush of sentiment were two sleepy brown eyes blinking up at me. The blaze that striped his face was so wide that it influenced one of his eyes to be tinged with a rim of blue. Rising up over both hocks were two high white socks. White also appeared on the crest of his rump in a playful smattering of spots. He was a tiny Appaloosa.
In a voice softened with affection, Dr. Jessie recounted what she knew of her newest patient’s story. The investigating Sheriff told her the colt was born only two weeks earlier with badly contracted flexor tendons. This led to a bilateral rupture of his extensor tendons in both front legs. His condition was so severe that he could not stand like a normal foal. Instead of placing his weight on the soles of his hooves, he balanced precariously on the front of his fetlocks and knees, in effect, walking on his knuckles. Perhaps thinking that exercise would strengthen and correct his legs, the owners allowed the lame baby to simply hobble after his mother.
Unfortunately, the foal was unable to walk, unable to nurse . . . unable to thrive. After two weeks of stumbling around on fragile, bleeding legs, the starving foal was too weak to stand. Not willing to watch the failing colt succumb, the neighbors mercifully called the Sheriff’s Department to intervene.
Now he was safe. Still weak, still underweight, still dehydrated and still unable to stand, ‘Templeton,’ as he was named by Dr. Jessie, was going to survive. It was clear how much this vet loved the little horse on the floor in front of us. Because of her medical skill, he was going to recover; he was going to have a second chance to live.
A second chance . . . something each of us needs. Dr. Jessie’s words and love for this small horse grew roots into my heart. Several weeks later, at the end of a long and wonderful day on the ranch, I contemplated the chocolate colored Appaloosa colt who was fast asleep with his head cradled in my lap. Because of the love of a woman, who just happened to be a vet, this young horse would live; he would have another try at this life.
The ranch was his home now.
Stroking his beautiful neck, I couldn’t help but marvel at how much he was like me, my staff and nearly every child who comes to Crystal Peaks. At one time, all of us were badly wounded, failing in our brokenness and growing weaker by the day. Like the slumbering colt in my lap, the world knew of our plight and simply looked away. Thankfully, the Lord of Lords
did not. Instead of giving nothing . . .
He gave everything.
Jesus Christ gave His own life in our place. When He rose again, He became our bridge of hope, a second chance we all can choose to receive. He does not look away from our pain. Instead, He comes to us, and extends His hand. He offers His love to bind our wounds, cure our sickness, heal our hearts. He is the refuge where every broken life can find a new home.
Symbolizing a new chance at life, we rename all the horses that come to live at the ranch. I considered changing our young colt’s name, until I stumbled across its original meaning. Templeton is Old English . . . for sanctuary.
It’s true; my new colt does resemble another horse that I will always deeply love. Yet, he is not Syngin, he will be unique and special in his own way, he will be Templeton. He will be my poignant reminder of what once was and the beautiful potential of all that can be. He will embody that there is always hope, there is always a sanctuary in our time of need.
Hebrews 12:12-13 ~ So take a new grip with your tired hands and strengthen your weak knees. Mark out a straight path for your feet so that those who are weak and lame will not fall but become strong. (NLT)
