Flash Page 14

  No, I’d say that Flash thinks of himself as more of a supervisor than a worker. He definitely has management potential—I’ll give him that much— although his people skills could use some help. He’s a bit of a micromanager. And this is where we run into problems.

  Case in point was this stall-to-workspace project in our barn, where the only door in this open-concept structure is for the tack room. The stalls are partitions, and the remaining area is covered but open to the pasture, giving Flash free access whenever he wants. Flash took it upon himself to personally oversee the entire renovation by standing directly in Tom’s way at every turn.

  He staked out the area between Tom and his tools, turning his head this way and that to inspect each hammer blow and wood cut. Swishing his tail and sniffing the box of screws, he knocked over the drill and stepped on the measuring tape. He lapped at Tom’s water bottle and devoured the crumbs from a granola bar. And he farted way too often for Tom’s comfort.

  “Back up, Flash ol’ buddy.” Tom pushed him a step backward so he could reach his carpenter’s level. Flash complied for a minute but was simply incapable of letting Tom do the next part on his own. Crouched over the floor joist to secure a new beam into place, Tom felt Flash’s warm breath near his ear. The “supervisor’s” muzzle hairs tickled the nape of Tom’s neck as he measured. Not satisfied with his vantage point, Flash inched closer and hung his head over Tom’s shoulder for an even better look. He offered his opinion with a slight shake of his lips. Up a little higher on the right, he seemed to say.

  “Hey, how am I supposed to get anything done with you resting your head on me?” Tom reached an arm around Flash’s neck and gave his nose a rub with the other hand. “What I really need you to do is carry a load of lumber from the truck to the barn.” At such a ludicrous suggestion, Flash cocked his ears sideways with a look that said, “You’re kidding, right?”

  Tom eased his body from beneath Flash’s head and stood up to get some supplies that were stored in the tack room. Opening the door to the narrow room and stepping inside, he found what he needed on the back wall.

  Clunk, clunk.

  Clunk, clunk.

  Before Tom had a chance to turn around, four hooves had stepped up into the space behind him, the clunks echoing on the wood floor.

  “Seriously, Flash?” Tom slowly turned, arms up over his head in the tight spot. Flash’s body trapped Tom against the shelves, his forehead planted into Tom’s chest. “I’m just getting an extension cord. You don’t need to check up on me.” He pressed on Flash’s shoulders to get him to back out. There could be no turning around in there. He’d have to exit rump first.

  Flash didn’t budge. He just stood there in silence, blinking straight ahead. Clearly, he didn’t trust Tom’s selection of the twenty-foot cord. The utter burden of having to manage every single move that occurred around here made him sigh in deep resignation. Oh, the incompetence.

  “Okay, you win. I’ll grab the fifty-footer.” Tom pulled the longer cord from the shelf and slung it over his shoulder. “Happy now?”

  Reluctantly, Flash clunked backward, off the step, and into the open barn, knocking over a can of paint in the process.

  “So much for being a service animal.” Tom teased him with an elbow nudge, righted the can, and returned to his work. “You’re absolutely worthless.”

  A service animal! Hey!

  Inspired by Tom’s suggestion that Flash might be able to carry a load of lumber, I embarked on some research to see just what a donkey could be capable of. To my surprise, and despite Flash’s less-than-stellar example, I learned that donkeys are the number-one service animal on the planet.

  Millions of donkeys around the globe do the hard work of hauling, plowing, carrying, milling, and pulling—jobs that people in developing economies rely on for their livelihoods. Donkeys are the John Deere tractors, the delivery vans, the family cars, the Ram trucks, and the lowly servants of the Third World.

  Photos of donkeys laden with heavy loads and looking as if they had stepped from the pages of ancient literature filled my Google searches. It’s as if time stood still for these gentle beasts of burden, and for the people in poor countries whose daily survival depended on them. Even here in America, donkeys are still used for riding, packing, and working.

  Flash had no idea how easy he had it on our little acreage, what with his supervisory position and all. It was high time he learned what he was made for.

  “Mom, our friend Barbara is not doing well.” Meghan tucked a stray red curl into her loose bun and bit her lip in worry. “They’ve brought hospice in to take care of her.”

  “Oh, I’m so, so sorry.” I knew how difficult this was for Meghan and Nathan, who were now married, and their small community of friends. Nathan had befriended Barbara several years earlier when she would regularly sit in his table section at the restaurant where he worked during college.

  Barbara was a lonely, physically challenged woman who needed someone to talk to and occasional help with errands and tasks around her apartment. Nathan, Meghan, and their friends had made themselves available to assist her when she needed it.

  Barbara had no living relatives, and as her health began to decline, she came to depend on the weekly rides to the grocery store and coffee shop that the friends provided. In a short period of time, she became unable to work and was forced to live in a small hotel room, nearly destitute. At fifty-five, Barbara had aged beyond her years, and she was understandably bitter over her situation.

  “Well, she . . . can be difficult,” was how Meghan described her once. “But that’s just Barbara. She’s had a hard life.” It was a kind way of saying that Barbara was not an easy person to love. She had long lists of things she wanted help with, but she wasn’t always appreciative of the assistance she received.

  By now, the group of friends had graduated from college and embarked on new careers. It became more challenging to meet her needs amid their growing responsibilities, and Barbara herself was more cantankerous than ever. Daily chores became unmanageable. Tasks like getting dressed, taking care of personal hygiene, and preparing meals were nearly impossible for her.

  The friends juggled their own busy schedules and did their best to help Barbara with the most basic needs. Meghan arranged home health care, scheduled social visits, and even assumed official power of attorney, all as she started her first year as an elementary music teacher. We worried that it was too much for such a young woman to handle.

  But Meghan and her friends were all in. They had taken on Barbara as a personal mission of mercy—and found themselves loving this difficult woman whom the world had all but forgotten. When she could no longer get out of bed, the state stepped in and moved her to a nursing home. And now, hospice had arrived.

  Meghan began to make arrangements for Barbara’s imminent passing, but there were questions. When a person is a ward of the state, who takes responsibility for her body when she passes? Where is she buried if there is no one who will visit her grave? What do you do with her belongings and personal treasures when there is no family member to take them? Who will perform a funeral for someone who cannot get out to attend church? And who will come to a service for someone who lived in such isolation?

  There was no one else.

  This group of friends would see Barbara through to the end.

  Sadly, she died as she had lived—alone, except for the company of the hospice nurse since no one else could get there in time.

  Barbara’s memorial service was held in a tiny chapel on a university campus. Tucked under gigantic oak trees, the stone structure was hushed as a handful of people—the former college kids—filed in. A table in the foyer held carefully displayed photos and mementos from Barbara’s life: her favorite coffee cup, the hat she liked to wear, a poem she loved.

  Meghan had collected personal items from her hospice room and agonized over what to keep. There was no family member to give anything to. No relative who would treasure a memory or smile at a
faded photo. There was just a small group of young people—a little oasis of love in a life that had been hard.

  Tom and I sat in the second pew and watched as one of the girls set up a floral arrangement she’d made; another handed out a printed program. Then it was time to begin. Two of Barbara’s friends led the sparse assembly in songs with a guitar accompaniment. There in that simple chapel, “Amazing Grace” had never sounded sweeter, resonating on the stone walls and then fading into the winter air. Meghan gave a eulogy, and Nathan spoke. Thoughtful words, carefully chosen, filled with affirmation and honor.

  We were there to remember someone whom the world outside had already passed by. A life that had become very, very small at the end. A life that, some would say, held little meaning. But somehow, this assembled group of grace-filled friends had validated her existence by serving her in love. They had gone out of their way, making personal sacrifices and giving of themselves, because they believed that serving is what they were made for. Barbara’s life, and death, mattered to them.

  Amazing grace! How sweet the sound . . .

  For days afterward, we went about our work with quiet hearts, deeply impacted by the love we’d witnessed at the simple service for this woman. It felt sacred, and words seemed frivolous, unnecessary. I filled Flash’s hayrack with his daily ration, held his face in my hands, and scratched under his chin. He seemed to understand my reluctance to talk and sighed gently as if to fill the spaces left empty of my normal chatter.

  That same week, we were stunned to hear the news that two residents of our town—Chris Kyle and his friend Chad Litttlefield—had been killed while they were trying to help someone in the community. Our local area was grieving the loss of these outstanding men.

  Suddenly for us, Barbara’s passing was thrown into stark contrast with Kyle’s death. The famed US Navy SEAL who had become a national hero was the epitome of service to his country. His bestselling book and movie, American Sniper, details his life and commitment to freedom. Self-sacrifice, dedication, honor . . . his life was marked by these attributes, and it touched everyone around him, including our own family. Kyle had given a couple of talks at Grayson’s high school, which was also Kyle’s alma mater. Kyle had inspired the kids to become the best they could be and to serve their country unselfishly.

  We couldn’t believe someone who had achieved such greatness could be from our obscure Texas town. He was just a guy from the class of 1992 who’d found what he was good at—and went on to become the most decorated sniper in American history. He was a larger-than-life hero.

  And now, his life had been cut short.

  The funeral was televised from Cowboys Stadium in nearby Arlington, Texas, and we sat at home in tears as we watched the ceremony. A flag-draped coffin, carried by Navy SEALs, slowly made its way to the front and was set amid dozens of floral arrangements. The familiar strains of “Amazing Grace,” sung by country singer Randy Travis, echoed through the enormous structure. In moving tribute, decorated generals spoke, friends offered eulogies, and his wife, Taya, shared her heartbreak.

  The following day, we joined tens of thousands of mourners lined up along the highway between Dallas and Austin to pay our respects. Facing a chilling rain and gusty winds, we held a flag as the long procession of government dignitaries, Navy SEALs, police and fire departments, family and friends all passed by in silence. Helicopters flew overhead as news crews captured the scenes of enormous flags hung across bridges and overpasses, and the people, young and old, who turned out to honor the slain hero.

  The passing of these two individuals within such a short span of time could not have been more striking. They were so very different . . . and yet there was a strand that connected them—a common thread beneath the surface that haunted me. One, who was honored by thousands, was remembered for his unparalleled service. The other, who was honored by a tiny handful, was remembered for what she could not give. One served many; the other was served by a few.

  Two people.

  Two funerals.

  Two gifts of service.

  It got me pondering.

  Though one gave and the other received, it was service that gave each life meaning.

  I needed to talk things over with Flash, and he sensed my readiness to discuss what had transpired. As a member of a breed made for service, I figured he might have some insight, despite his lack of actual experience. Pulling up a chair in the barn on a cool February afternoon, with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand, sounded like just the ticket to enlightenment.

  As Flash nosed his way toward me in hopes of receiving an apple slice along with the conversation, I was reminded of the donkeys who had turned up in my Internet searches—the ones who looked like they’d stepped off the pages of ancient history books. Saddled with loads piled high, pulling heavy carts, or carrying sun-wizened men in turbans, their nimble hooves seemed to echo through time and land—plop—right in the Old Testament.

  The Bible records donkeys as being valuable assets. (No pun intended.) A man’s worth, back in the day, was measured in land, cattle, sheep, goats, and donkeys. A bit more cumbersome than today’s “what’s in your wallet” method of transactions, donkeys were a hot trade commodity, and it was always a good idea to have a couple dozen in your back pocket, so to speak. I can only imagine women approaching their husbands about some new drapery fabric, on sale for a limited time, as traveling merchants came through town.

  “Honey, it will only cost three donkeys! That’s a whole donkey off the regular price!”

  Twenty-five percent off has always been great incentive to buy. Some things never change.

  I started noticing every mention of donkeys in scriptural text. Listed in terms of wealth, ceremonially set apart, ridden by historic characters . . . donkeys are woven into the fabric of biblical life. A tool for everyday work, a prop in a narrative story, a symbol for royalty. From Abraham to Jesus, donkeys served. One even spoke out loud!

  The donkey who bore Mary, the mother of Jesus, is one who served in complete obscurity. In fact, he is not even mentioned in the Gospels. But the eighty-mile trek from Nazareth to Bethlehem would likely only have been possible with the help of a sturdy donkey, and tradition tells us that Mary made the uncomfortable trip atop the back of one such animal. I imagine Mary’s backache was no different from mine, making a walk to the pantry for a midnight snack nearly impossible, let alone a journey by foot to a distant town. A ride on the bony back of a donkey would have been a welcome alternative to a painful pregnant waddle through the difficult terrain.

  As I looked at Flash, I pictured that Christmas donkey in my mind. When Joseph saddled him up and tied extra padding down for Mary’s ride, the donkey could not have known he would be making the trip of a lifetime. When he stopped to graze by the side of the road and was urged onward by an anxious husband, the animal couldn’t have imagined that his journey would end in a stable filled with holiness, angelic choirs, oblivious cattle, and a baby wrapped in a handmade blanket. Well, maybe he’d have guessed about the “oblivious cattle” part. I mean . . . cattle, right? But he could not have known that the entire course of history was turning a page, and he was part of it.

  No. He simply walked.

  He did what was asked.

  He followed Joseph for eighty miles. His halter, made of rough twine, probably rubbed his nose as he carried the coming Savior and His young mama. This donkey trodded along the rocky trails, the cobblestoned roads, and the dusty paths to ferry the precious cargo that would change the world.

  He did what donkeys do best: He served.

  How just like God to use another donkey, thirty-three years later, to bring the Savior-King through Jerusalem on another amazing journey. Handpicked by Jesus, this donkey could not have known that the job for which he was chosen would bring grace and forgiveness. He carried Jesus through the uneven streets, stepping carefully over cloaks and palm branches, to the final, climactic scene of Redemption.

  Hailed, celebrated, famous for his role,
this Palm Sunday donkey is forever remembered whenever the story is told.

  But he did nothing out of the ordinary, for a donkey.

  He walked.

  He did what was asked.

  He simply did what donkeys do best: He served.

  Jesus’ remarkable life was bookended by two donkey rides. Imagine that. The first took place in obscurity, to a tiny stable in a little town. It ended with a baby’s cry, some swaddling clothes, and a gaggle of shepherds who came in from the fields for a glimpse of the Promised One.

  The last took place amid cheering throngs and against a backdrop of Passover and deep social unrest. It brought all of human history to a single, pivotal point on the time line of eternity. This ride ended with a cry from a cross—“It is finished!”—and an empty tomb.

  I was struck by the poetic drama of it all. Amazed by the vivid realization that God uses ordinary means to do extraordinary feats. There, in the barn with my coffee and the donkey who thinks he’s midlevel management at the very least, I was bowled over by the service these lowliest of creatures had rendered to bring about this story. It’s as if God chose to unfold His plan using the most humble tools available so He could reach humankind with His gift of grace.

  I set my cup down and began to pull out brushes, rollers, and wood stain so I could work on some signposts we were making for one of the campuses of a large corporation. Sometimes I think best when my hands are busy. I positioned the paint tray and poured in the dark espresso-colored stain.

  Flash watched my every move with inquisitive eyes, then stepped forward to inspect the color in the tray. With his nose just above the stain, he seemed to give me the okay to proceed. If only hooves had thumbs! (We take being able to give a “thumbs-up” so for granted, don’t we? Imagine how hard it would be to function with hooves for hands. And texting? Impossible.)