Hard times come to us all—people and animals alike. Even daily life requires courage to walk the journey before us. The courage to keep going.
One of the most courageous creatures I’ve ever known was a beautiful horse called Nibbles. I first met the mare in 2000 at LoveWay Therapeutic Equestrian Services in Middlebury, Indiana. LoveWay, founded in 1973, compassionately works to transform lives through therapeutic equestrian experiences. Nibbles was one of about twenty horses and ponies providing therapy and interaction for people ages three to sixty-five with special needs.
My husband recently joined the numerous volunteers in our community who gave their time to help. Although Sean wasn’t part of the human team assisting students, he wanted me to join him to meet LoveWay’s equine team and to see them in action. So we drove to the bucolic setting and turned into the long dirt driveway that climbed between two pastures to a parking area in front of a sprawling building. This barn housed the offices, stable, and indoor arena.
There, I first encountered the horses and ponies. Some hung their heads over their stall doors, accepting a pat on the nose or the scratching of an ear. Others, patiently cross tied in the barn aisle, were being groomed by students guided by volunteers. In the arena, more horses participated in a small class, giving their riders a workout.
All the horses with riders were amazing. But one truly stood out. A white mare walked holding her head at an angle, a child on her back, following her leader and listening for any commands about what to do next.
I asked Sean, “Why is she cocking her head like that?”
“Nibbles is blind in one eye.”
As I continued to observe, I realized this horse was keeping the lead volunteer in her sights, watching for nonverbal cues, while one ear was pointed back listening to what happened behind her. She was impressive and steady.
Horses accept you how you are, whether you have autism, multiple sclerosis, cerebral palsy, Down syndrome, traumatic brain injury, or any other diagnoses. Therapy horses don’t worry about the label. Undeterred by wheelchairs and crutches, unafraid of weak or misshapen limbs, careful with people who couldn’t communicate clearly, Nibbles provided mobility for those who may not otherwise have had opportunity.
Nibbles’s steady responses provided her young rider with important exercise. Basic horseback riding uses muscles important to walking. Participation can improve coordination, muscle tone, range of motion, and balance. A volunteer leads the horse when the student sits in the saddle. Other volunteers walk on either side of the rider to help with safety and stability, telling the horse when to “stop” or “stand” or “walk on.”
When the child finished his session that day, the side walkers helped him dismount at a specially designed platform. The gentle mare welcomed his pats and nuzzled his hand.
Then Nibbles was led back to the stable area, where her tack was removed and she was groomed by other students and volunteers. Even just interacting with the horses often builds confidence. Nibbles’s rapport with all the students was lovely and inspiring.
Several years passed as Sean continued his efforts at LoveWay. His role was to care for the equine team. He mucked stalls, fed and watered, administered medications, and did anything else the horses required. He smoothed the terrain near the barn when winter weather created deep ruts. He mended fences and gates. He repaired stalls that required attention. He helped keep the horses healthy and safe.
I heard about all his adventures and occasionally accompanied him when my heavy teaching schedule allowed. Some horses retired and new therapy horses came along, so I had to meet these equine miracle workers as well as greet my longtime horse acquaintances.
With sadness, I learned Nibbles had contracted an infection in her remaining eye. Treatment didn’t solve the problem. Eventually, the eye had to be removed. I feared the worst, but she returned to LoveWay, where she was beloved by all—staff, students, and volunteers. Being with the people she knew, surrounded by the familiar sounds of her busy home, Nibbles recuperated.
I was surprised when she eventually resumed her previous duties. No wonder everyone flocked to this lovable mare who shared her courage with the students. The next time I watched Nibbles in action, though sightless, she was gentle with her rider, listened for all the cues, and—without hesitation—walked on.
When my schedule changed about a year later, I was exhausted from more than a decade of overworking and uncertain how to move into a less stressful job arrangement. I was grappling with intense anxiety in crowds and in new situations.
Sean thought time with the horses would be refreshing, and he asked me to join him as a LoveWay volunteer. Of course, I responded with enthusiasm. I wasn’t much of a horsewoman, but I could muck a stall with the best. I also learned to portion out flakes of hay as well as mix food, add beet pulp, and stir in sweet feed according to the chart specifying each horse’s diet.
Sean knew my hesitation around horses. Although I love them, I tend to be nervous, even a little afraid around the large animals. But on my first day as a volunteer, my husband showed me where the tack was stored, let me into the feed room, which smelled pretty tasty, and reintroduced me to the two friendly barn cats. He gave me instructions, and we soon cleaned all the stalls, measured the food, and filled the water buckets. He took care of preparing any medications. We even fed the barn cats and changed their water.
Time to bring in the horses. Sean walked me to the side pasture. When we reached the lush grassy area, we were surrounded, and my ever-present anxiety rose. Sean reacquainted me with Cosby, a kind pony about my height.
Though my heart was pounding, the pony stood her ground and remained unflappable among the pushy mares. Her nerve made this almost seem doable.
I asked about the path, and Sean assured me Cosby knew the way. “You’ll be fine.”
So, I mustered my courage and grasped the rope he had just snapped onto her halter. I took a step, and Cosby joined right in. I was to lead her to the barn, which was a bit of a misnomer. She led me. Every time I increased my pace to keep up, she sped up too.
When we arrived at the barn—I breathless and Cosby having glanced dubiously over her shoulder at me from time to time—the pony led me to her stall, where her full feed bucket awaited. After I removed the lead rope and latched her stall door, she didn’t give me another glance. I’m pretty sure she wondered where they found this volunteer.
Once my breathing slowed, I patted one of the barn cats and told the pony I was heading out. The snuffling sound of Cosby’s eating never paused.
My next assignment was to fetch Nibbles. I couldn’t spot the mare anywhere. Sean said she was probably in the farthest pasture out by the tree line. After several minutes of instructions and reassuring discussion, I took the lead rope he gave me and started across the fields, hands trembling. As I moved slightly uphill, I saw that Sean was right. Nibbles, white coat shining against the dark green forest behind her, was way out there.
How did a blind horse wander so far? And how would I get her all the way back to the barn?
I needn’t have felt nervous. Nibbles had heard us begin the evening ritual of moving the horses and ponies, bringing out hay, and more. By the time I drew near to the back pasture to collect her, she already had begun her slow walk toward the gate that led into the next pasture. A horse always knows when it’s suppertime!
As she ambled my way, I spoke to her across the field. Her head turned briefly. Then she focused on the gate again, which surprised me. But as we both neared the opening from different directions, I realized the barn staff had hung wind chimes that rang in the soft breeze. Nibbles was following their delicate tinkling, adjusting her pace and angle until she reached the open gate, then walked through into the lower pasture where I met her.
She greeted me with a soft whicker, her mane shifting with the wind.
A little hesitant, I approached her while talking. I patted her neck, enjoying the smoothness of her coat.
I told her how smart she was, snapped the lead rope to her halter, and said, “Walk on.”
Together, we headed for the barn. I placed a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned into my hand. Tears came as I felt her courage to trust someone she barely knew to lead her safely to her stall.
I jabbered nervously on that first stroll, but Nibbles kept pace with me, swishing her tail as we moved in a sweeping arc around the hay barn and downhill, then back to the left toward the stable.
I spent the next year and a half outpaced by Cosby and walking beside Nibbles. Both were kind, aware of my fears. Accepting my limitations, they showed me compassion and affection.
Nibbles, though, inspired me. She gave me courage. Courage to do what I hadn’t been able to do before.
Nibbles was an older mare when I met her. After she retired from transforming students’ lives in the arena, Nibbles remained at LoveWay, loved and cared for. Even though she is gone now, I often think of her and her intrepid determination to keep going no matter what.
I regularly pray for that kind of courage. I pray that I—like that sweet white mare—can face each day and walk on.