The Pony Years

Undoubtedly some of my fondest memories revolve around the years I spent riding horses. Like many children, I dreamed of having a horse. I remember my first riding lesson on a horse named Bullet and looking out my window many nights for that first evening star and wishing "Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight...."

Looking back, I guess this was a form of prayer for a six or seven year old. Fortunately for me, I was an only child and blessed to have two loving parents one of whom my father was very much a kid at heart and thus decided to make my most fervent wish come true the Christmas I was seven. I awoke that Christmas to find a saddle under the tree and that Santa had brought me Sandy, a scruffy Shetland pony. We soon discovered however that Sandy had a bit of an ornery temperament frequently throwing me and others onto the ground so it was not until two Christmases later when Dad got my second horse, Chocolate (pictured above) that I truly was able to experience the joys that went with being pony crazy.

Chocolate was an even tempered POA pony. He was the greatest. Even my mother who was less than enamored of the whole horse thing loved Chocolate. Horses became a passion for my father and I. All of our free time was spent together at the Stables trail riding and horse showing were what I loved best. Although Dad and I were in our glory during this period of my life from age nine until about age twelve, this was a time when the distance between my mother and I became strained. Sadly as an only child, I was caught in a tug of war between my parents whose own marriage was continuing a downward spiral marked by lack of communication, fundamental differences in values and open hostility. My dad was my hero and he poured all of his energy into me making many of my dreams come true but in retrospect at the expense of and with little regard for the relationship between my mother and I.

Faith and religion at this point revolved around time spent attending Sunday School, CCD, choir and church at my Mother's Methodist church and or at St Judes, the Catholic church where my dad was a member. This period was marked by a bitter struggle between my parents over the faith tradition in which I was to be raised. For my father being Catholic was a defining choice. He had insisted on my Mother's conversion before they were married. She had complied but soon after discovered that she was not at home in the Catholic Church and instead preferred the traditions of her own Faith. In many ways, this was the death knell of my parents marriage for my Dad and a bitter disappointment for him during their first year as newlyweds. This tug of war over religion only intensified with my birth. I learned later that both my mother and her mother refused to attend my Baptism due to their feelings of hostility for the Catholic Church. At some point, my mother began taking me to Sunday school at her church. Understandably, she wanted to raise me in the same traditions that had formed her faith. I have fond memories of my time there. My Sunday school teachers were kind and Pasadena was a wonderful church Community. Looking back my recollection is that I learned and remember far more regarding Faith from attending Sunday school and can only remember being completely bored relative to CCD at St Judes.

As the years passed from nine to twelve when my parents finally separated, my adoration for my father was a driving force behind my religious choices. I grew tired of getting up to attend Sunday School early on Sundays and then being picked up and shuttled to another hour of CCD followed by Sunday Mass. I longed for a shorter day and began to resent the time I spent attending Sunday school. This conflict apparently reached its zenith when at twelve, it was time for Methodist Confirmation. My mother naturally wanted me to go through the process however my father put his foot down and that was for all practical purposes the end of my Sunday school days.

My religious identity was then and has always been that of a Catholic. Mass was never to be missed. Even on horse show days, we went to mass sometimes fully dressed in our riding habits. On one Sunday, I remember looking down at my father's boots on the way to communion to see that he had neglected to remove his spurs before coming to Mass. On one Mother's Day, we attended the last Mass in town at a different church from our own not understanding a word because it was the Spanish Mass. Still, we were there! I remember experiencing my First Communion and First Confession the Spring after I got my first pony. I remember the white dress, the veil, my best friend being there and opening my mouth to show my her the Eucharist I had just received upon returning to the pew since as a non Catholic this was somewhat foreign to her. I remember that my mother took me across the bay to Tampa to get my dress and I remember that she attended Mass that day to see me make my first communion. Only now as a mother myself can I appreciate the depth of her love for me putting so much into this day which for her must have been a difficult one. I do not remember feeling much religious significance to receiving this sacrament, however. In fact, it was years later before I understood the Catholic doctrine of real presence and how this is a fundamental difference between other religious traditions. By contrast, I can remember feeling especially spiritual during Christmas Eve services at my Mom's church. I sang in the choir and can vividly remember the beautiful candlelight service which culminated at the end with the Star that hung from the ceiling being lit symbolizing the birth of our Lord. It was something that we always looked forward to since Christmas was the only time when this Star was illuminated. Someday, I would love again to be present for this service.

Looking at this period of time in my life, I can clearly see God's presence. My faith was being developed more than most having the experience of two faith traditions. My mother was always the one to say prayers with me every evening, a simple one, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. This continued even when I was in High School. I was learning to feel an identity as a Catholic asking my father to take me to my first midnight Mass around age 10 even though I fell asleep through most of the service and wanting to go to my first Good Friday Mass which was traditionally 3 hours long. Through all this, I can see that my formation in terms of belief, knowing that there was a God and the duty to honor him by faithful participation in a church community, was being nurtured. Even with respect to my horses God's presence was something I recognized as I can still remember my mother finding and my memorizing A Pony's Prayer and saying it to Chocolate as I nuzzled him with my check before leaving the stable many evenings. Amazing, I can still remember it though it has been years:

Dear God, it's such a hectic life

So Much to keep a pace with

So many chores to fill my day

So many doubts I'm faced with.

I'm such a tiny animal

And kinds are so demanding

But then again they are so sweet

And gentle notwithstanding.

Dear God above please give me strength

To face each passing day

To be the mighty Trojan

And Champion all the Way.

Amen

Thank you God for being with me during these years and for all the blessings during this time. Forgive me for any hurt I caused especially to my Mother during these years. Thank you Mom for always loving me even when I wasn't always loving...