Conversations Around the Holy Hand Grenade

Jesus the Horse

This cowgirl said to me, "How could you ride a horse all the way across the desert without giving it a name?"

And I told her that it wasn't that kind of relationship, you know, I didn't have that much authority over the horse, we were more equals. If the horse wanted to have had a name, or if the Universe had wanted the horse to have had a name, then the Universe would have provided. Perhaps I would have been asked to name the horse, or some other Providence would have occurred. But, seriously, I don't know why she thought it was up to me.

She seemed to grow impatient waiting for my reply, and did not seem satisfied with my shrug, and the soft smirk that came from thinking about my lengthy, unspoken internal response.

"I don't know why people don't treat animals better," she said.

"Maybe they do," I said.

"I didn't mean you." But of course, she did mean me. "I'll bet you took good care of that horse. You would have fed and watered and groomed him well."

There's nothing like putting expectations on someone. There's nothing like a passive-aggressive cowgirl. Turn in your Stetson.

"But I don't know. Was it a decent horse at least?" Finally a question I can almost answer.

"It was a fantastic horse. He knew where we were going the whole time."

The bartender came by and she looked thoughtful for a fraction of a second before she realized she needed to say yes. "Sure, one more." I nodded.

"The horse's name was Jesus."

Her eyes were big and I think she backwashed into the long-neck bottle in her hand. She neatly wiped the corners of her mouth with a finger. "Jesus, huh."

I laughed too, just to let her know that I didn't mind her reaction. "Jesus. See, Jesus was what I needed. And I didn't need Him to be human in that moment. I really needed Jesus to be a horse."