Memories of Baylady

Baylady was our first horse.  A tall, bay mare with lots of attitude.  Her coarse, wiry mane and tail were always hopelessly tangled, she had a round, bulky body with disproportionately slender legs, and the patches of grey on her nose betrayed her age.  But in my 12 year old eyes, she was the most elegant piece of horseflesh ever to walk the planet.  We didn't know her breed exactly; she was advertised as a racking horse, or, as it's pronounced in my area, "raykin' oss."  A rack is a particular gait--showy, high-stepping and surprisingly smooth.  Baylady didn't rack for very long, though.  Galloping eventually takes the rack out of a racking horse, and Baylady loved to gallop.

When threatened, scared, or irritated, every horse has a mode of self-defense--a way of muscling their way through the situation and getting what they want.  Some horses rear, some horses buck, some horses kick or bite.  Baylady just ran.

The day we brought her home, we decided to introduce her to our goats.  Once out of the trailer, Baylady pranced around with her head high and ears pricked forward.  The goats were clumped together like a nervous school of fish.  Baylady snorted and charged the terrified goats, successfully driving them through the electric fence and into the trees beyond.  It took hours to catch them.

Riding Baylady was sometimes a nightmarish experience.  She had a hard neck, a hard mouth, and a hard head.  Years of being ridden with a straight, thick bit had left her mouth calloused, and she had taught herself to clench the bit between her teeth (rendering her rider powerless) and suddenly burst into a gallop.  She was addicted to her stall and would do anything in her power to get back to it.

I was determined to train Baylady to be more sensitive to her rider, and this meant using a more gentle bit and riding bareback.  The first few years with Baylady were some of the sweetest and the most frustrating of my life.  The gentle bit made it easier for her to feel even the slightest hand gestures, and it would eventually soften her calloused mouth, but it also made it easier for her to ignore me and force her way back to the barn.  The lack of a saddle opened up the lines of communication; I learned to feel and read the muscles in her shoulders as she learned to understand the tension in my legs, but it was also more difficult to stay on her back when she ran, and I found myself well-acquainted with the hard ground on multiple occasions.

I have vivid memories of the hard days.  Struggling to my feet after being thrown to the ground for the third time, my arms shaky and the hot tears filling my eyes, trying to remain calm as I pulled myself onto her sweaty back.  I tried to keep my goals small:  Today we will learn how to walk--not run--across the pasture.  Tomorrow we will learn how to walk--not run--down the gravel road to the barn.  It was tough work, but I was obsessed with this stubborn, hard-headed mare and couldn't imagine giving up.

Baylady was sure-footed despite her small hooves.  Once, as we were trail riding, she caught sight of the barn through the trees and plunged into the woods in hot pursuit.  A steep, densely wooded bank blocked her way, but she plowed through at a gallop without even the smallest slip.  I laid flat against her and was lucky to make it through with only a few scratches.  Later, as I was taking her at an easy canter on flat, dry ground she suddenly collapsed beneath me.  I panicked and scrambled off of her back, thinking that she was injured.  Then I saw that she was contentedly snatching up mouthfuls of grass while lying on her belly.  I suppose she had just decided it was time for a break.    

The jumps were a mistake.  I knew Baylady could jump, but she seemed determined to disobey just for the sake of disobeying.  We'd pick up speed as we approached the jump, I felt her muscles harden, I leaned forward and grasped large handfuls of her mane...and she would suddenly veer to the side just as we got to the jump, missing it altogether.  Sometimes she would swerve so quickly that I would lose my seat and soar over the jump without her.

Baylady taught me about myself during these early years.  How I chafe and press against instruction, sometimes rebelling just because I don't like being controlled.  How my response is often to panic and run when I don't understand God's will.  How when it's hard, when I'm tired, and when God has asked me to follow Him into painful, lonely territory, I strain toward the comfort and safety of my "barn" instead of walking patiently with Him.  So many difficult chapters of my life have been diluted and even wasted because I tried to run through them instead of walking.  Baylady was a tangible and living metaphor for me of this reality.

Years of training--and aging--caused Baylady to become more pliable and responsive.  She softened toward the gentle bit and repeated walks to the barn like a rough stone is smoothed over time by the currents of a river.  Then came the summer when I took her bridle off and rode her around the pasture, giddy with delight as I found that I could guide her with only my shifting body weight.  My triumph was short-lived, however, and with a toss of her head she doubled back and sprinted toward the barn.  I guess I pressed my luck a little too far that time.

Baylady was soon gentle enough for children and guests to ride.  She gave her head to the reigns more easily, although she sometimes gave a slight tug before giving in--as if to say "Just because I go where you tell me to go doesn't mean I have to like it!"  Although she was more submissive, she somehow still retained her saucy personality.  As I led her from pasture to pasture, if she felt the journey was going too slowly she would put her forehead between my shoulder blades and give me a sharp nudge.  She taught herself how to open her stall door one night and helped herself to several gallons of feed.  She still loved a good gallop.

Sometimes I feel that this is the sort of submission God wants from His children.  Sometimes I wonder if there is less glory for God in a blind, dutiful faith than in a faith that wrestles with Him, digs deep into His mysteries and pours itself out to know Him better.  A heart that seeks to understand His will as much as submit to it.  A heart that not only kneels before Him as God, but also walks with Him as Friend.

Baylady died on a Sunday morning last summer.  She had lived a long and rich life.  I cried until I thought my heart was going to break.  I've seen lots of animals die on our farm, but this was different.  It felt like my childhood had died with her.

Baylady taught me a lot about myself, but she also taught me about God.  My passion to master this unruly horse was a two-dimensional snapshot of God's passion to have my heart.  If I would pick up my bruised body and climb back on Baylady after being thrown to the ground again and again, then surely God will pursue my wayward soul as persistently.  If I would walk miles to catch her the time she got loose and cruised down the road to a nearby elementary school, then surely God will chase down my straying heart.  If I poured out hours and tears to teach this stubborn animal to trust me, to let go of her anxiety and walk...then surely my Heavenly Father will contend with me a while longer and teach me the same thing.