I want to take you to the wild, sweet grass that grows up tall right by the paddock fence. This is where we go to graze, the horse and I, whether good ride or challenging, whether disappointed in myself or pleased. This ritual of goodness - standing, doing nothing but holding the lead rope while he grabs mouthfuls of green and his ears flick back and forth in quiet contentment - this is an anchoring, like the weight of the babies I nursed to sleep in those stretches of the night. The animal goodness of things. The peace of wild things - is that what Wendell Berry said? That’s where we come when our world is fraught.
In a few months, we set out two hours south, our lives on the wind, for me to start seminary. We take ourselves and our things into Austin, into a new neighborhood, a new maze of streets and parks and school and grocery store, so that I might undertake a new work of becoming an Episcopal priest.
A surreal sentence to write. I keep my hand on the softness of the horse’s neck. I watch his ears flick, eyes soft. I remember that this, too, is what I seek.
The call comes over years and all at once. The call comes quiet and then insistent. The call comes and weaves through the words of prayerful people (discerners, priests, committees, bishops). The call comes and I keep my hand on this horse because - well -
this horse has been the being to clarify the call. On his back, circle after circle I have turned over the longing in my heart:
to tell the good news of resurrection.
To declare life triumphant over death, an absurd proclamation proved to me in whispers and shouts and a son’s miracled breath.
To sit amongst the wreckage of my once-well-laid plans, and to know that there is a silence to be kept there, alongside Jesus whose silence is speaking.
This horse - creature brimming with the goodness of existence, with his own language to and with God (hidden from me, as perhaps it should be) - has shown me the call, and the courage to answer it.
Every canter step that teaches trust. Every wrong lead that teaches forgiveness and peace. Every moment of being that proclaims the goodness of being. He has fought with me and taught me honesty. He has softened and reminded me that letting go is more often the way to deepen trust. He has been himself, which has been a different freedom to my own.
To leave daily work with him is a grief. To leave his unencumbered presence, his twenty-minutes-away promise - what words are there?
But the call comes and with it the unbelievable gift - to become one whose work is to give voice to hope in dark places, to listen for the movement of the Holy Spirit in other hearts, to pray, to learn, to walk alongside others in pursuit of Jesus.
This horse has ridden me up to this call, and I will never turn on an 18m circle - I will never turn on a circle in any metaphor in my life - the same way again. Overwhelming my missing of him is my gratefulness. Overwhelming my fear of the unknown is my love of the same.
Pray with me, if you’re the praying kind, that these few months that remain in this pattern of life would be rich and full, for all of us? And that we’d move with courage, with delight, with that peace of wild things?
Love, for all you’ve done to make this space for me - to read and to entrust me with your time,
Hilary
P.S. I’ll still see this horse regularly, just not as often - but he’s in my heart permanently, so I know I won’t stay away too long.
The peace of wild things 🥰
The turning, and the returning.
Beautiful!
Austin!! Priesthood!!! Yes!!!!