Connecting Through Ponies — My Dream Job

A few months ago at a writer’s conference, I listened as a father in the audience shared the story of finally buying a horse for his daughters. For years, he’d turned a deaf ear to their pleading. Horses are expensive, dangerous, smelly, just a fad, he reasoned. They’ll grow out of it.

Then, a wise old grandpa gave him a bit of advice–or a glimpse into the future. “When a girl turns thirteen–” he told the young dad, “–she’ll either fall in love with a boy, or a horse, depending on which one’s available.”

The young dad quickly went out and bought his daughters a horse. He hasn’t since regretted it.

So, not long ago, someone asked me this: If you could have any sort of dream career (other than the one you have) what would it be?

Writing has always been my dream career. My first grade teacher made a writer out of me, and from then on I loved the feeling of living in a story. I loved discovering the ways that stories can bring us into the lives of others and into ourselves. Stories teach through experience, and when we experience something, we learn.

Because I was a horse-crazy girl, most of my story experiences back-in-the-day involved horses.

Which leads me to my “someday” dream career — the career I’d love to have, if I weren’t a writer.

My dream career would be connecting girls to themselves, and God, and each other, through ponies. It might sound impractical, but bear with me a minute. I’m not completely off on a wild tangent of the sort that only a flaky storyteller-type can invent. These days, there are many wonderful therapy programs in which horses are used as therapy animals for kids with a variety of mental, physical, and emotional challenges. As a teenager, I worked with one of these programs and was amazed each week as kids who were locked inside their own bodies suddenly became mobile, communicative, filled with excitement and enthusiasm, and joy.

There’s something special, particularly about horses and girls. I understand that power on a personal level. As a girl, I traveled far more miles on horse-feet than I did on my own. In the hierarchy of neighborhood kids, we girls who had horses ranked fairly high. Wherever we went, we were always trailed by younger kids, hoping to snag a few minutes of riding time.

One of those kids one day was a little brown-haired, green eyed girl I’d never met before. I didn’t know her name, but I knew she belonged to a family who’d moved into a little rental house across the creek. I knew they kept to themselves, and the kids on the bus sometimes made fun her because her clothes didn’t always match, and her hair wasn’t always clean, and she sometimes smelled like she came from a house with too many cats and dogs trapped in it.

She started following me up and down the creek that day — the little girl from the smelly house. Finally, I asked her if she wanted a ride on the horse, and of course, she did. Every time I asked her if she was done, she said no. We rode and rode and rode until it was dark enough that I knew I needed to take the horse back to the stable and get home or my mother would have my head. I remember thinking, as I pried the little girl’s hands off the saddle and dropped her at her doorstep, that in all the time we were riding, and even now that it was getting dark, no one had come out to check on her or call her in. That seemed so unusual, so strange. She asked if I’d take her riding the next day, and I did. Eventually, she became my sidekick, my little horse-buddy, which was fun for me, because being the youngest kid in my family, I’d never had the kind of unqualified admiration that comes from being someone’s big sister.

Over time, though, I heard stories about the things that went on in that house across the creek. Back then, nobody talked about domestic violence, or alcoholism, or neglect. We didn’t hear about things like that on TV. It was the first time I was ever really aware that, right next door, or across the creek, or around the next corner, a little girl might be growing up in a house that wasn’t clean, and wasn’t quiet, and wasn’t safe.

It was the first time I realized that the world was probably full of girls who really needed a horse… and a friend.

So, there’s my dream job. My “someday” job. Big girls, and little girls, and horses, and connections. And love. At thirteen, they’re much better off finding it in a horse than a boy.

That wise old grandpa was right.

So what about you? What’s your “someday” dream job? If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?

Lisa

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[image error]Lisa Wingate is a magazine columnist, inspirational speaker, and the author of eighteen mainstream fiction novels, including the national bestseller, Tending Roses, now in its seventeenth printing. She is a seven-time ACFW Carol award nominee, a Christy Award nominee, and a two-time Carol Award winner. She has found success in both the Christian and general fiction markets, writing mainstream fiction for Penguin Putnam and Bethany House. Recently, the group Americans for More Civility, a kindness watchdog organization, selected Lisa along with Bill Ford, Camille Cosby, and six others, as recipients of the National Civies Award, which celebrates public figures who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life. More information about Lisa’s novels can be found at www.Lisawingate.com