Back at the Ranch

In honor of a good friend's engagement, and because it's been a while, I offer you a little insight into what God has laid out for me -- see if you can't untangle the mess...

Before I get crazy, before I start attempting to wield fanciful words in an attempt to inspire the slightest insightfulness, I must first acknowledge the complete lack of knowledge I might have in any and every subject I may be prone to rant and rave about. I have always known that fact, whether I chose to express it or not is a different issue, yet lately, it has never been more poignently expressed than through a quote from Kierkegaard that I have been chewing on for a while now: Speaking to would-be ministers he said: "be on their guard lest by beginning to soon to preach they rather chatter themselves into Christianity than live themselves into it and find themselves at home there." (Journal, July 11, 1838) Before we venture any further, please know that all I have to offer is not a sermon, not advice, neither knowledge or philosophy, rather what little insight I have been afforded by the grace of God through trying my best to do my own little share of what He's asked.

There are 3 things currently on my office wall (excepting the clock and gotesquely placed vent), a corkboard full of quotes, cards and pictures; my ACU diploma; and finally an autographed photo of one Robert Duvall as Augustus McCrae. Before you few fans get too excited, it's really a cheap photocopy blown up, placed on carboard and wrapped in cellophane. I purchased it for $3 in San Antonio last Christmas. Yet, there he stands, with that spry look in his eye, reminding me to enjoy the little things in life. Perched high on my office wall, in it's original, frameless, cellophane wrapped state, his legacy of wit, wisdom, weakness and compassion set a standard for my interaction with the young men I work with here in New York, and it's one I've vowed never to forget.

Truthfully it started a long time ago, but we'll skip those details and move to the summer of 2004. It was around 3:30 am, I'd had just finished arguing with the Intensive Care Nurse about whether or not she could release the status of a patient to me, and having waited through Ryan's 6 hour reconstructive plastic surgery, hyped up on a mix of a little caffeine, some adrenaline and a whole lot of worry, I was not in the mood to argue. Hyped up on the good stuff himself, Ryan permitted the very unprofessional and extremely unkind nurse to release his information to me. Having failed to share the "complete truth" with Nancy and Mary Beth, as well as being the closest thing to a family member within a thousand mile radius, there was a sense of responsibility that had to be satisfied. I don't know why, it just did.

I was instructed that he would regain the complete use of his arm, and feeling an overwhelming sense of relief, sat down on the couch to allow reality to synchronize itself with the present. I felt calm and relaxed finally, but still had this nagging sensation that something was missing. I looked at the clock -- then it hit me, I had to be up in an hour and a half, no, an hour now... arguing with early morning hosptial staff helps you lose track of time. It was the event I was looking forward to from the moment I was invited, and it completely slipped my mind.

It was my first extended period of time on Long Island, I had spent my Spring Break there a couple years earlier, but what can you really find out about a place is a week? I wasn't aware how rural it actually was, especially out on the east end. All along the eastern end of the island there are vineyards and farms, doing their best to capitalize on the rampant tourism during the summer and fall. Along with open space and farms comes a pretty lucrative horse industry; people pay a great deal for horses, and then pay a great deal more for someone to break and train them so they can use the finished project. There are horse sales in Jersey, been there, there's even a really fun one in Lancaster PA, where you can mingle with Mennonites and acquire Amish arts and crafts, not to mention a fantastic (and literal, might I add) Smorgesbord--Miller's Smorgesbord--to wet your whistle and quench that appetite. I ate, in one meal, every barnyard animal available on the mass-produced, common market. And Emu. That, friends was a fantastic trip, but it ranks nothing compared to this one.

This trip revolved around the horse industry, but on the completely opposite spectrum. There was no great deal of money switching hands here... and there certainly weren't any well trained horses. We were after horses, true, but the kind that no one wanted, the kind the government had to protect, the kind that our ancestors used to round up and sell, the kind the spaniards left behind, the kind of outcast, disenfranchised, underdog, discount, no-count horse that has been and will be the symbol of the spirit of America. In the words of Nathan Dahlstrom, we were after a hearty, healthy "slice of Americana" -- we were after the American Mustang.


To be continued...