You really need to exercise, Richard. You’re getting flabby, and your face is puffy. If you want to keep eating like a farmer rather than a pastor, you’d better start getting more physical activity.”
My wife, Candy, was preaching the same sermon she had preached a hundred times before, just because I had outgrown another pair of pants.
“I don’t exercise,” I argued.
“Then quit eating.”
“I like to eat. Besides, I might hurt someone’s feelings if I don’t eat what they offer.”
There was some truth in what I said. The favorite activity of Philadelphia Baptist Church, here in the southern Ozarks, was consuming enormous potluck dinners. My, how those ladies could cook! As pastor, naturally I was obligated to sample every dish. I had to admit it was beginning to show—just a little.
“You could start jogging,” my wife said. “You can run down the dirt road alongside the church.”
Under protest, I donned some old tennis shoes to take my first steps toward a new life of health and fitness.
“Take the dog with you,” Candy said suddenly. “He doesn’t get out much. And take my horse, too. I haven’t had time to exercise her.”
Just because we lived in the country didn’t mean I knew anything about animals. I was from the city—the big city. “I can’t ride your horse!” I exclaimed. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Nonsense. You just don’t know how to handle her. Besides, I didn’t say ‘Ride her,’ just take Appy with you. I’ll put the halter on, and you can lead her down the road. It’ll do you both some good.”
The adventure begins I obediently started off down the road with a cheerful dog at my side and a nasty-tempered horse breathing down my neck. I soon lost sight of the parsonage, and the quiet of the forest settled in around us.
Quiet, that is, except for the thunderous pounding of my heart and the painful gasping of my lungs.
Moses, our dog, bounded happily in and out of the trees and bushes, chasing rabbits and squirrels, stopping every now and then to make sure I hadn’t died.
After what must have been at least four miles, not the one-quarter mile Candy says it was, I collapsed in agony on a fallen log by the road. I could barely hold my head up, and the muscles in my legs were quivering like Jell-O.
“I’ll never make it back home,” I quavered to my four-legged exercise companions.
Moses continued hunting. Appy, no longer playing tug-of-war on her rope, was contentedly cropping grass nearby.
My eyes finally focused again. I did a test walk around the log and realized my legs were so weak they now had a mind of their own—they were not walking any further!
How will I get home? I wondered. My mind raced, desperately trying to think of a way to get home.
Homeward bound The horse! I thought. I can ride Appy home.
I said a prayer kneeling beside the log that day. Foremost among my requests was that I wouldn’t be killed.
Taking the loose end of the lead rope, I tied it to the halter, forming reins. I’ve watched the Lone Ranger, I thought. I can do this. I prepared to mount. I thought about flinging myself up onto Appy’s back like I had seen the Indians do in old western movies. However, I was not an Indian, and this was not an old western movie.
I led Appy next to the log and begged her not to move. I cautiously hoisted myself on top of her. Once in position I warily urged her onto the road.
This isn’t so bad, I thought, as Appy walked down the road. I could get to like this.
Moses walked alongside as Appy ambled toward home. Soon she picked up speed, walking faster and faster, then suddenly broke into a trot. I bounced painfully on her protruding backbone and pulled back on the “reins” with one hand; the other clutched Appy’s mane.
“Whoa!” I cried. “Whoa, Appy, whoa!”
Obviously, “whoa” was the incorrect command for this horse, because it only made her trot faster. Soon I was alternately hollering “Whoa!” and crying to God for deliverance.
Then the local schoolbus pulled up behind us. Appy decided to challenge the bus to a race. We began to gallop flat out. I quit trying to stop this demon and just concentrated on surviving. The wind whistled in my ears, and my eyes began to water. My legs ached from hanging on, and my fingers were white-knuckled from grasping Appy’s mane.
“Did you have a nice time?”
The bus driver floored it and swung out alongside the four-legged devil and me. The children, many of them members of my church, hung out the open windows. “Hey, Pastor!” they yelled. “Pastor! Pastor!”
I didn’t have time to respond to their calls because we were nearing the church. Now she’ll slow down, I thought. She’ll have to slow down to make the driveway.
Wrong. Appy decided she’d rather jump a drainage ditch than take the driveway. The schoolbus was still alongside when Appy made a sharp, ninety-degree turn, sailed over the ditch, and landed in the church parking lot—still running full speed. The children on the schoolbus cheered and continued down the road.
My guardian angel was working overtime that day because I stayed on board—much to the horse’s dismay, I’m sure. After a mad dash through the parking lot, she came to a sliding halt right in front of the parsonage. The momentum of the sudden stop carried me off Appy’s back to stand miraculously alongside her as if my dismount were intentional.
Moses finally caught up, and the three of us stood trembling from our exertions.
“Did you have a nice time?” Candy asked as I entered the kitchen for a glass of water. “It looks like you really exercised hard.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said and collapsed on the couch.
The following Sunday, the members of Philadelphia Baptist Church greeted me with comments like, “I heard about your ride this week, Pastor. I thought you said you couldn’t ride a horse.”
“You’re not as ignorant about animals as you said you were. My boy said you’re some rider.”
“All our kids saw you riding. You must have been pulling our leg all this time.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t make people realize that a great miracle had occurred. My own wife was beginning to doubt me until Sunday afternoon when she was grooming that four-legged Lucifer and discovered Appy was missing half her mane.
Richard Asmussen now lives in Phoenix and works as a technical adviser for a nuclear power plant.
Copyright © 1998 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. For reprint information call 630-260-6200 or contact us.
