Headstrong.

It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.

It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.

Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.

Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.

I learned.

Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.

After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse.  Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.

I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.

Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.

I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.

Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.

It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.

I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.

Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.

Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.

But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.

It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”

It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.

My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.

As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.

It was the same horse. Both times.

No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.

There was still hope for him.

For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.

I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)

How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.

But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?

On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.

He knew the man.

Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.

He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:

“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.”
(Luke 22:32 ~ NET)

Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.

Before!

Chew on that a minute.

Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.

But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.

He will never let go of us!

Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.

What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.

His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.

I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.

Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.

Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.

I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.

It’ll be beautiful and frightening.  Mostly, just beautiful.

Are you coming with?