Horses have always been part of my life. For years my husband, Conrad, and I owned horses and boarded others on our farm in Minnesota. It wasn’t easy work, but I loved my animals.
One horse stood out over all the others: Schatze. The nickname means sweetheart, because that’s what he was from the very start. I should know. I owned his mother, and I was there when he was foaled, 23 years ago.
He grew into a beauty, two white socks on his hind legs, a star between his soulful eyes. Schatze was my pride and joy.
With our three children grown and off on their own, life on the farm became harder. One morning after cleaning the horse stalls, my body ached so bad I wanted to crawl back into bed.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I told Conrad. He surprised me. “I can’t either,” he said. Conrad was from Texas, and he’d always wanted to go back.
We were almost 60. Maybe it was time to make the move. The kids didn’t want us to leave, but Conrad and I bought a small house near Austin. Simple. Low maintenance. Just what we were after.
We sold the farm. It was painful, especially to sell horses I loved, but we quickly found good homes for all of them. Except one.
Schatze was slightly lame, for no apparent reason. We couldn’t sell him as a sound horse. I’d never wanted to give him up, not ever, but there’d be no place for him in the city. I had to find the right home. Just before our moving deadline, the sister of an acquaintance asked to have Schatze to trail ride.
“He’d live on a Wisconsin farm,” she said. “With a pony and a few calves.”
It sounded so nice. Schatze would be happy, and that’s what mattered. I told her how to care for him, how he liked to give kisses for carrots or apples. “Just love him,” I finally said. I gave him to her in return for that promise from her. No charge.
It was too much. I wrapped my arms around Schatze’s neck and sobbed. Ten years together. Leaving him was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
We’d been wrong to think we could go from one extreme to the other. Whenever I talked to family in Minnesota, I dissolved into grief. Conrad wasn’t doing much better in our cramped surroundings. Our yard was a postage stamp full of sand burrs.
I’d once worked happily, sunup to sundown. Now I had little to do except sit at the computer, and I only felt worse physically. I began to hurt everywhere. So much for city life.
Eventually we found a 40-acre ranch with a few cows. It was nowhere near the work we’d left behind in Minnesota. Just enough. And this time, it was the right move. We were back in the country, with enough room to breathe. If only we had Schatze.
One morning I noticed a piece of paper on the floor. I’ll pick it up later, I thought. That wasn’t like me. After a while I couldn’t tie my shoelaces or get out of a chair. Conrad had to help me put on my socks. Making a bed was Herculean. Climbing stairs was torture.
“I feel like I’m 100 years old,” I told Conrad. He insisted I see a doctor.
The diagnosis was polymyalgia, a type of arthritis that affects the muscles. The doctor gave me a corticosteroid drug, and I felt better until I learned that a possible side effect was osteoporosis. That worried me. Strong pain medications only made me sick.
Finally I just stuck to aspirin, and prayed for relief. Was this what getting older felt like?
I got into bed one night, my whole body tight as a drum. I ached from head to toe, in places I didn’t even know I had muscles.
Lord, give me something to focus on besides my pain. I wanted to like my life again. I wanted to be me. I often thought of Schatze, remembering his sweetness, hoping he was okay.
Conrad decided a trip back home to Minnesota would do me good. A letter arrived just before we left, from a girl who had worked on our farm. She sent a picture of a horse. He looked unkempt and thin. But that star! Those eyes! The two white hind socks!
It was Schatze. He was at the university vet school, donated to be used as a blood donor. Not a good life.
I visited the university soon after we arrived in Minnesota. There he was. “Schatze,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.” He nuzzled my cheek. Tears filled my eyes. He was still my precious horse, but different now. Lethargic, sad.
“We have to do something,” I begged Conrad. But what? How could this have happened to him?
I had a restless night. Sometime in the middle of my tossing and turning, I heard something. A voice: “What is the desire of your heart?” I looked over at Conrad. He was sound asleep. “Who’s there?” I whispered.
Again, that question. I wasn’t dreaming. But how to explain what I was hearing? The desire of my heart? It was so simple. But saying it couldn’t make it so.
“The desire of my heart is to have my horse again.” The idea was impossible. But there it was. A Bible promise came to mind, Psalm 37: “Have your delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart.” I hardly dared believe it.
The next morning Conrad and I had a long talk. We determined to get Schatze back, but we couldn’t obtain his release from the university. We returned to Texas without him. One image stayed constant in my mind: my beloved horse.
We waited months and months, advised by the university that only when they were “through with him,” could we buy him. The pain I lived with grew worse, but I decided to put my faith to work. I needed to do something concrete to show God that I really believed in him.
I got to work. I wanted to be sure Schatze would be safe around the barbed wire fence on our ranch. I twisted white plastic ties on every wire to make the fence more visible.
Finally the university released Schatze. Our children pooled their money and bought him for us. That was one of the happiest days of my life. Now, how to get him home?
A former neighbor called. She had a horse trailer. She’d bring him down to Texas!
Schatze needed me full-time when he came back. I couldn’t retreat to my bed. I had to feed him, groom him, care for his feet–all the things you must do to keep a horse happy and healthy.
He came back to me very head shy. I had to regain his trust, attending to him as if he were a foal again. He had to learn that no one would mistreat him. He was my focus. I all but forgot about my pain.
Then the day arrived when he lowered his head into my arms. “Schatze,” I told him. “You are home.” He became himself again, and I’m as much me as I ever was. I needed him as much as he needed me.
I’m still a bit creaky in the hinges, but at 68, that’s not bad. Schatze and I can grow old together. I love him, the desire of my heart.
