In the middle of a sagebrush strewn canyon, not too far from a juniper strewn one, sits an old farm house. A long time ago, that house was inhabited by a bucking horse rancher named Andy Ely. Up the hill from his buckaroo homestead sat an arena that was perfect for bucking out some of the rankest dudes the Northwest has ever raised. Horses like Sock Dancer and Roan Ranger got their start right there, and it was as western a place as one could ever find. We used to practice out there at Andy’s back when I was going to school in Walla Walla. Out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the spot suited Andy pretty well. He was all cowboy, and he’d just as soon be on a horse, or at least flanking one, as he ever would be standing in crowds of people. A lot of juniper found its way to that little place. From the big juniper overhead at the front gate, to the wing fences that guided horses and bulls into the sorting alleys, the place looked western. I used to like getting there early. Part of the reason was that Andy had an old semi trailer converted into a tack room, and it sat right there by the arena. Inside, there was a wood stove and about every type of bit, bridle, set of reins, or saddle you could imagine. The old boys gathered in that trailer were a concoction of cowboys from all walks of life. Pickup men, saddle makers, bullfighters, and the kid down the road all gathered for an afternoon of shooting the breeze and bucking some horseflesh. I’d stand in there listening to the windy tales and admiring the saddles hanging on the walls. I was wanting to be a saddle maker at the time, and I’d been tooling a lot of leather, so I’d just pore over the workmanship in those saddles like I was reading a book. I’d pick Joe Benner’s brain about building saddles, building trees and everything else we could think of. I remember one time Milt Patterson and I rode out to gather the bulls, and it was one of those perfect afternoons. Nobody had arrived yet. I was riding a pretty nice Severe rough out saddle, and I was on a horse that was about as smooth as a warm wind. Milt and I got to visit as we rode, and they don’t get much more cowboy than Milt. Those were good times. Regardless of the saddles I was admiring, the tack I was drooling over, or the bucking horses I was climbing on, I just enjoyed spending time out there at Andy’s place. It was almost like stepping back in time fifty years. Back then, we didn’t even have cell phones, and if we had’ve, we wouldn’t have been able to get service there, anyway. I’m not entirely sure if Andy had satellite television, or not, but it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m pretty sure the only thing he ever watched was LONESOME DOVE. But it was a cowboy outfit, for sure. The horses bucked hard, and if a guy didn’t come with his hammer cocked, he was going to end up with a face full of dirt. And there weren’t a whole lot of sympathy around that outfit, either. I guess the reason I liked hanging out there was that it was as raw boned, as juniper, as Charlie Russell as an outfit could get. A lot of people live on a place like that because they don’t have a choice. Andy lived there because he loved it. He loved to run those bucking horses out in Juniper Canyon, and he loved to see them fire in his backyard—a million miles from town. The saddles, the bridles, the cowboys, and the stories all just added to the mix. It was a lot of fun. It was real. I’ve been to a lot of pretty nice places in my life. Places you could eat off of the asphalt driveway after the roping was over. Places where the fences were as clean and pristine as if they’d been built yesterday. Places where every trailer was parked perpendicular to the fence, and not a flake of hay was misplaced. Where the barns were cleaner than my house. And they just never have gathered my fancy like that rawhide outfit of Andy Ely’s. Seriously, the place was just cowboy. That’s all. To me, that’s how our relationship with Jesus is supposed to be. It’s supposed to be raw and real. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t know much about the sacrifice he made. He was as raw and as real as anything, and he took that beating and those nails for us. He did it because he loved us. And he still comes after us for the same reason. Jesus doesn’t care about fancy churches, nice sounding religion, or wonderful, catchy programs. He’s not into catch phrase theology, nor is he into pounding perfection down our throats. He’s into us. As raw and as real as we are. As flawed and splintered and ugly as we are. He’s into us. If he weren’t into us just the way we are, it just wouldn’t be real. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” Hebrews 4: 15, 16
Posted on: Fri, 17 Jan 2014 04:52:10 +0000
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