A Letter From Pastor Kurt

A Mule Named Spirit

He was a big mule, a really big mule… bigger than many horses. As far as he was concerned, the huge pasture he lived in was his personal space. Twelve to fifteen acres with plenty of room to move around … if he wanted to, which he usually didn’t. It was a good life.

Nothing difficult was ever required of him. He had more food than a small herd could eat. Plenty of shade trees around the borders when it was hot, an open barn when it rained … what more could he want? Hidden high up the western slope of the Cascades, far off the beaten path, visitors rarely bothered him. Most of them were city people who knew nothing about farm animals. The few who ventured over to his pasture were paying guests of the Dude Ranch his owners ran, and they were too intimidated by his enormous size to approach him. The riding horses were in a corral near the main barn.

A sigh … a gentle snort … a half-chewed mouth full of sweet grass, and his left eyelid drooped as his right hind foot hitched up like it always did when he dozed off.

His right ear twitched before his brain awakened enough to register anything. Voices … several of them … young voices. If he could’ve understood English he would have heard the excited Boy Scouts exclaim, “Hey! It’s a horse.” “No it’s not, you idiot! It’s a mule. Don’t you know anything?” He swung his head around and watched dispassionately as 8 or 10 of them climbed up and over the split-rail fence lining the driveway side of his field. His right hind foot slowly returned to the ground. His ear cocked down at right angle to his head like he was signaling to make a turn. Other than that, he was as still as a statue while they approached.

A couple of them ran toward him without evidence of any threat. The main pack walked briskly, but cautiously as the leaders drew closer. Two brought up the rear very slowly, not too sure what was about to happen or how it might turn out. Better safe than sorry.

All but the two timid ones began circling slowly as they came close enough to reach out and touch him. They looked harmless enough, and even if they weren’t, he had dealt with bigger problems than these twerps could hand him. One kick and they would scatter like mice. But, hey … no risk, no fun.
The first one touched his neck softly. He gently swung his head in his direction, giving the kid permission to stroke his jaw, then his muzzle. This one was not a novice, and the others began to follow suit, patting and petting him all over; on his flanks, his shoulders and his sides. One even began to scratch him behind his ear. Felt nice. These boys might be OK. He closed his eyes again. So far, so good.

One of them started talking again, and as he did the others began to take hold of him all around. Quickly he had a kid fastened firmly to every part of him except his tail. They knew enough to not be directly behind him. Three of them had both arms wrapped around his neck, one on each leg, and a few more without room enough to get a good grip. Two stood to his left side. Then one of them put both hands up toward the side of his back as the other one stooped down. These punks intended to ride him! This should be fun.

Spry as could be, the one standing at his side was boosted up on his back by the other one as the rest of them jumped backward away from him. Their timing was good. The kid’s butt had no more than touched his back when he uncorked a mighty, bucking jolt that sent the boy flying over his head a good ten feet. To his surprise and pleasure the young man landed, rolled and came to a stop laughing like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “Let’s do it again!” he shouted as he jumped to his feet.

“It’s my turn! I’m going next!” yelled the one who had helped him onto the mule’s back. “Then me! I’m after you!” And “me next!” erupted the chorus … all except the two out on the edge. Not a word from them. With that, the boys scrambled to lay hold of the mule again as the next hopeful rider got into position. In their enthusiasm they did not notice that though the mule stood still, his posture was very different. His eyes were wide open, his ears were erect and perfectly still, his tail was not swishing and every muscle in his body was as tight as a piano string. He was an equine trebuchet, ready to launch the next load with his full power.

Once again, Boy Scout up, Boy Scout off, then the scramble for the next rider to get his turn. The field grass was long and thick, the sod was fairly soft and no injuries resulted from the next several thrills. But the mule’s eyes began to show a stern resolve unnoticed among the joyful young bronc riders, and things were about to change.

As they gathered around to ready themselves for the next explosion, the big beast gave a sigh and let all the energy drain from his body. The boys shouted the cadence in unison, “One, two, three,” and the next expectant cowboy sprang up onto the mule’s back as the others all jumped back, their faces electric with anticipation. To everyone’s complete amazement … nothing. Not a twitch. Then the mule slowly turned his head to look at them, waited a few seconds, and sat down. The kid on his back could not keep from sliding down, off his big rump and onto the ground. The mule blinked once, turned his head back forward and let out a big, lip flapping sigh. The boys stood staring in stunned silence, unwilling to embrace the implications of what had just happened.

What’s the point of the story? That depends on whether you identify with the Boy Scouts or the mule.

For Christ’s sake,

Kurt