His hands on the Reins

From Keith,
To the Congregation.
Mark 6:31 “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”

I am driving a team of horses. This is the high point of the week for me.

Melvin ask me yesterday if I wanted to drive. "Definitely yes," I did not hesitate. Today King is acting up in the hitch. He throws his head, scoots sideways, rears up. Cars are so much more predictable. The events with David grind the uncertainty of working with horses into my mind. I am about to reevaluate my choice when Melvin tells me I can drive Doc and Jake. This is the hitch his Father is driving. They are as mellow as you can get. I breath a sigh of relief. He gives me a crash course in driving a two horse hitch. I will be  pulling the rake for turning the hay into windows for baling. The most harrowing moment is as we approach the end of the row. You drive the horses right up to the four strand barbwire fence then guide them left with word and rein commands. They are neither used to my voice or my hands on the reins. Melvin's hands are flawless. His voice is so calming yet firm. Horses can sense the nervousness in the reins and voice. Cars are so much less finicky.

Melvin hops off at the turn. I take the reins.

I saw the reins back and forth at first; turn right, turn left. Doc is steady, but Jake is getting frustrated.  "Make up your mind. left or right!" I begin to settle in and just ride. I watch the hooves kick the hay along the row. The leather creaks and the chains jingle. There is a song in the rhythm. The Amish sing working songs from the moment they enter the barn throughout the day. Sometimes they are sung in full voice, sometimes just underneath their breath. Of course they sing in Pennsylvania Dutch, but I find myself singing. Then crying.

Driving the hitch has a deeper meaning than just horses and hay for me.

Growing up, Dad would talk about Sally and Jack. They were a pair of mules he drove on their farm. He would regale us with stories of their antics. Stories of super horse pulling abilities and quirky personality traits. He would raise up his hands, mock holding the reins of the ancient stories. I sat enraptured at the tales.

I look down at my own hands holding the reins of my team. They are wrinkled, weathered, aging hands. I have my father's hands.

He passed three years ago. He guided more than horses through life; his voice reassuring, his hands firm and sure. Never a perfect man, but still a hero.