Firn Hyde

Horse News. Christian Living. Equine Education
The Christian Equestrian's Literary "Stamp" in Type

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Firn Hyde

Firn Hyde

Firn Hyde is a homeschooled teenager from South Africa. She lives on a farm with her parents, sister, and more than 500 animals.


According to Firn, "Lord Jesus cured my horse, Skye, of a terrible disease and walked into my life in 2011 . He is my best Friend and has given me a passion and a vision to lead others to Him through His magnificent creature, the horse."


Firn serves eQuest For Truth through her writings. Her contributions often include articles about Africa's horses. Currently, she is contributor to The Hoof Print Blog.

Posted by on in Horses in Ministry
On Chastening

Today, my old suspicion has been reaffirmed: an undisciplined horse is just as dangerous than a completely wild one.

It didn't help that the horse in question was well over sixteen hands high, a fiery young filly with plenty of blood. As beautiful as breaking dawn, the filly moved like moonlight on ocean waves; with effortless, rippling grace. She also knew exactly how strong she was, and exactly how small a human was in comparison to her power.

I followed my trainer, the inestimable Horse Mutterer, to her paddock expecting an absolute rebel, judging by the owner's description of her behaviour: she was aggressive and pushy, panicked in the stable, and had a nasty habit of rearing up and flipping over. The filly put up her ears when she heard us coming and cantered over, bright-eyed, friendly, and I began to think perhaps the owner was exaggerating. But she just didn't stop. She thudded to a halt only when her chest hit the top bar of the fence and I took a surprised step back as she nearly headbutted me with a head about the same size as my whole torso. Whereupon the owner diagnosed her own horse's problem in one sentence along the lines of: “She's so nice most of the time.”

We got more background information as the filly was led to the round pen, carefully studying every move made by both groom and horse. The filly had been orphaned at only a few days old; by a gargantuan and most laudable effort, the owner had successfully raised her to a large, strong and healthy young horse. Obviously, the owner cared deeply about this filly. Raising an orphan is no mean feat, but somewhere along the line pity had crept in and discipline had promptly signed out.

Now, the sweet orphan baby had turned into a menace. At first, as the Mutterer lunged her, she seemed just fine; content to trot around the pen for a few laps. Then, bored of this, she came to a halt. The Mutterer moved to encourage her on and she swung around, took careful aim and double-barrelled, both hind hooves flashing out in one deadly movement. Being the Mutterer, he had seen it coming a mile away and the kick failed to connect. But with that kind of vicious, head-height kick, you would be lucky to get away with broken ribs or a shattered face.

The filly was a typical spoiled brat; obviously adored by her owner (or else the owner wouldn't have looked for help when she needed it), but in complete, manipulative control of everyone around her. What had gone wrong? It was evident that she was well loved and well cared for, never roughly handled, yet still she was dangerous. The answer was simple: she needed to be taught respect. She needed to be disciplined – to be chastened.

Most well-behaved horses, mine included, have felt the nasty end of a dressage whip in their lives, with the result that they have a healthy respect for everyone around them. How, I hear you ask, could a good horseman possibly bring themselves to lay a lash upon the horses if they love them? Because they love them. They chasten them because they care about them. For the same reason as the Lord chastens all of us.

Yes, sometimes we can all be just as bratty as that big filly. We can be opinionated and stubborn, demanding our own way and throwing squealing, bucking temper tantrums when it doesn't happen. Sometimes we're so set on what we want that we nearly kill ourselves trying to get it. Other times we don't care who we're hurting, or how badly we're hurting them, as long as we don't have to do what we don't want to. We've all been selfish and spiteful in our lives; ever since the fall of Adam it has been a part of us that we will have to learn to let go of. And God knows that to learn this, we have to be chastened. Just as a loving father reprimands his child, our loving God reprimands His children.

So next time His righteous anger is upon us and He disciplines us with the consequences of our selfish actions, let us not be disheartened or resentful. Let us accept the chastening, repent and ask forgiveness, for He is a generous and loving God Who is quick to forgive. Then let us thank Him for His amazing love and try again, and do it better. If we are being chastened, let us know that this is a sign that He truly loves us. For whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth (Hebrews 12:6).

Glory to the King.

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Posted by on in Horses in Ministry
Trusting the Leader

I always dislike giving a horse an injection. Even when I know that I'm just doing my best to care for them, I flinch just as badly as the horse does when I hold up the glittering silver needle. At least my bay gelding makes it easy for me. Shots often involve a couple of forefeet waving around my head, but Thunder has never reared in his life. I grit my teeth, rub his neck to make sure he is nicely relaxed, and push the needle deep into the neck muscle. He stiffens briefly, turns one of his giant, liquid eyes to look at me.

“It's okay, buddy. It's going to make you feel better.”

The gelding can't understand what I'm saying, but the tone of my voice reassures him. He gives a deep, low sigh and then relaxes. In a few seconds, the injection is over and I softly rub his neck to soothe the worst of the sting. Because his muscle was so relaxed, I know that in a few minutes there will be no pain at all, nor any soreness tomorrow morning. And in a few hours, the anti-inflammatory I gave him will have eased the mild lameness in his foreleg.

As I cover the needle and unbuckle his halter, I can't help but marvel at the way our horses trust us. We all know how nasty shots are, but we humans – at least after we're ten years old or so – hold still for our injections because we know they're for our own good. But Thunder has no way of knowing that the medicine will make him better. It would make logical sense for him to fight me when he feels the sting of the needle; I am supposed to be his herdmate, but I'm hurting him for no reason that he can understand. Yet I don't even need someone to hold him while I give him the shot. His lead rein just hangs loosely over my elbow while both my hands are busy with the syringe.

Thunder doesn't know what the sharp stinging pain is for, but there is one thing he does know: I am his leader, and in the four years of his life, he knows that I have acted for his good. Not in every situation – I am imperfect; man, not God – but in enough situations that the big gelding has decided that he can trust me. It only takes my voice or my touch to soothe him because I have become his safe place. He will let me hurt him because he trusts me to help him, and because he knows that I outrank him and therefore know better than he does what he needs to survive.

There is something for us to learn from Thunder and the millions of other horses that trust us. Just as humans cause horses a few seconds' pain in order to help them heal, God sometimes allows painful things to happen to us in order to bring us closer to Him and to the people He created us to be. A parting, a disease, an injury, a rejection, a loss – there is so much in the world that can hurt us. And pain is nothing to be ashamed of; Jesus Himself knew it well. He bled, wept and sweated blood. It's how we handle the pain that matters.

Some young horses will get up on their hindlegs and fight for their lives when anyone approaches with a needle. Usually they are the ones who have some bruising or swelling after the shot because their muscles were tense, or they jerked away and caused the needle to move slightly in the muscle. Sometimes it proves impossible to inject them at all and they end up having to suffer for longer with whatever injury or illness we are trying to cure. And many times we react in the same way to the tribulations we are subject to; we fight God, crying out against Him, demanding how He could possibly let this happen to us. In the meantime, He knows that this brief pain, this tempering of a sword in the fire, is only going to make us better, make us happier, make us stronger and nearer to Him in the long run.

God allows us to feel pain not because He hates us, but because He loves us and wants to heal us. If we will relax and trust His beautiful plan and make no attempt to fight against Him, then He will heal us and help us. Even the pain itself will not be as bad as it would if we fought Him. And He is there for us, to reassure us when we are hurting, to hold us close when we think we can no longer bear it. We are not stronger than we think. We are much weaker than we think. But the mighty God inside us is stronger than anything, and makes us unconquerable.

So next time we're hurting and we want to demand why He would be so unjust as to hurt those who follow Him, remember the bay gelding who stands so still to have his shots, and trust God. Relax, fix your eyes upon Him, and trust the King Who loves you. Glory to the King.

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Posted by on in Horses in Ministry
The Little Gift

Today is my King's birthday.

He is older than time, but today marks the two thousand and fourteenth year since his birth. When He was born, a giant star lit the entire sky with the brightness of a second sun. Angels sang, shepherds worshipped, his virgin mother held him close, wise men brought gifts of value and the King of Kings slept in the hay.

Tonight, there is no star. I hear no angels. I see no shepherds. Mary is long gone. And I can offer Him nothing more than I already have: myself, a living sacrifice.

But tonight, the King does not sleep. My resurrected King reigns today in the glory of His majesty; He is the Alpha and Omega, the Creator of the world, Lord and Saviour, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Isaiah 9:6). He governs heaven and earth, He is mightier than mighty, stronger than the definition of strength. As I worked in the sunset, He filled my mind, Christmas carols rising around me as I ran the bodybrush briskly down my chestnut colt's sleek golden coat.

I always find Christmas a little sad. That innocent Babe in the manger was destined to live a cruelly short life, to die a horrible death, the hands that healed nations punctured by nails, the lips that spoke truth and love to cry in desperation, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matthew 22:37) Of course, this Babe would rise again and reign forever. But I can't help but grieve a little knowing what my beloved Friend had to go through for my sins. I grieve, too, for Mary; Mary who sang her song to glorify the Lord that night, perhaps not knowing that in thirty-three years she would sob at the feet of the cross upon which her baby was slowly dying. As Simeon said to her, “A sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.” (Luke 2:35)

I am joyful, yes. Thankful, beyond so. But always a little sad. And my thoughts were with Him, rejoicing and thanking and praising and apologising all at once. I finished grooming the colt, untied him and turned him loose. The last rays of the setting sun had turned the world to honey as I set to work scrubbing out the feed bins and convincing the ageing donkey to move from his feeding pen back to his paddock. The donkey, like all donkeys, bears a cross on his back. Maybe it's just legend that donkeys have crosses ever since a little donkey colt that bore the King, or maybe He laid it there when He first made donkeys, marking His humble mount since creation.

My humble, beloved King. I ride a thoroughbred; bright as a sword's blade, aflame with his power, able to leap as high as I am tall and run like a winter gale. But my Lord rode a humble little donkey that had never been trained, a donkey colt no more than ten or eleven hands high, dusty with the desert sand. Lord, how You bless me more than You blessed Yourself.

“O come let us adore Him, O come let us adore him,” I sang badly, tunelessly. I never sing when people are around, but I think Jesus appreciates the effort, even if He does so with earplugs. “O come let us adore Hi-im, Christ the – Oh, look!”

As I turned, I saw it. The chestnut colt, inviting the thoroughbred to play.

The colt is only fifteen months old, but he's had a rough start. He spent most of his life in a little paddock, and – worse – some of it cooped up on stall rest for an injury, going stir-crazy with nothing to do and nowhere to move until eventually he just died a little inside. The flame inside every colt stilled, until his eyes were full of fear instead of fire. Two months ago, when I got him, the colt didn't know how to be a horse. He didn't know what he was. He couldn't function in a group; while the other horses grazed, he would stand in a corner of the pasture, nibbling hay instead.

Now, my socially impaired colt has made friends and ventured further, but something has still been missing. The colt had no idea of how to play. Where his peers were on their hindlegs sparring joyously in boisterous play-fights with their friends, he would just stand and eat hay. Even the older thoroughbred gelding would dance and strike at him, trying to get him to play, but the colt would just trot out of reach and stand watching. It was the one thing he needed that I couldn't give him; I fed him as best as I could, and gave him the space and company he needed, but without the free exercise of playtime in a group, the colt's legs would never grow up properly, would never recover from the injury he had suffered a few months ago. There was nothing more I could do. It was up to God and the thoroughbred to teach the colt to play.

It was unusual to see the colt even walking briskly, which was why I was so excited to see him trot right up to the thoroughbred. But I was still more astonished by what I saw next. Tossing his gentle head, the colt stuck out his nose and nipped the thoroughbred right alongside the cheek. Snorting, the thoroughbred returned the nip, slightly harder. I held my breath, sure the colt would flee. But he didn't. He squealed, struck out with a foreleg and nipped the thoroughbred's neck. The thoroughbred, delighted, nipped back and the colt reared briefly, clumsily striking out with his forelegs in an attempt at the usual play-fighting gesture.

“Oh, Jesus, Sir!” I nearly sobbed. “He wants to play. Exavior wants to play.”

The play session only lasted for a few more seconds before the thoroughbred wandered off and the colt began to contentedly graze beside him. But it was a start. My broken colt had finally learned to play, and I knew exactly Who was behind this discovery.

It was the most perfect Christmas gift. A little gift, perhaps. But it lit up my world.

I turned into the sunset, smiled and said, “Thank You, Sir.”

Peace on earth, and goodwill to all men.

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Posted by on in Horses in Ministry
Building the Bond

Only thirteen months old, the chestnut colt is already a horse – more than 14.2 hands – at my best guess. Neat little ears tipped towards me, he watches me as I approach him; a lanky mixture of curiosity and fear, awkwardness and grace. His long legs look too thin to hold up his powerful hindquarters. The impossible slope of his shoulder looks strangely out of place against his skinny baby neck, which is weighed down at the other end by the one part of him that glows with nobility; his head. The wide white blaze should make him look placid, but instead it only attracts attention to the perfect wide brow, huge bright eyes, tiny mouth, and chiselled features. His expression is the most contrasting of all. The pricked ears say curiosity, but nervousness gleams in his eyes.

I put my hand his neck; the muscle tenses as if he wants to flinch, then relaxes when he feels the gentleness of the touch. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m not going to hurt you.” Words that I will repeat over and over, because the chestnut colt has been mine now for seven days.

My first warmblood, the huge colt is bred in the purple and looks like it, especially when he drifts across the ground as if his already bulky frame weighs nothing. His flashy sabino markings make him even more eye-catching than he already is anyway, with his expressive face and the promise of reaching over seventeen hands. He was well bred, well raised and trained by my own instructor; it was no surprise that he was quickly snapped up by a lady looking for her next competition horse. It was just a freak accident that he injured his left hindleg. The resultant scar and worries about his soundness made him difficult to sell, and that’s how the beautiful chestnut colt became mine.

He looks at me nervously. I know my trainer has never hurt him, but he doesn’t know me and for a lonely baby in a new world, that’s all reason he needs to be afraid. He trusts me enough that I can catch him, lift up his feet and brush his face; in fact he is perfectly easy to handle, but a fear lurks beneath the obedience. I know that as soon as something frightens him, he’ll think he has to fend for himself and run: barring that, fight. I wish there was a way I could tell him that he doesn’t need to be afraid, that I won’t let anything hurt him, and will look after him now. But there is none. So I show him instead, with slow movements and gentle words, a soft touch and a strict leadership. The small terrors of a fly spray bottle or a rainy day don’t make him quite so panicky as they used to. And one day the tiny steps we’re taking now – getting him to stand still while I groom him, showing him that rubbing his ears is pleasant, not scary – will all add up when we face the jumps or the dressage arena. One day he will be not a scared colt, but a conqueror.

I run my hand up one of his ears; instead of flinching, he tips his head towards me, enjoying the caress. Little steps.

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Every time I look into the eyes of the chestnut colt, I see myself. Join-up has been done; I will follow God, however tremulously, where He leads me. I will stand firm, with however much terror, when the storms begin to break around me. There are still things of this world that scare me, things that I don’t want to face even though I know He is bigger than any of them, that His love is stronger than death itself. But God knows this even better than I know it, so while I grow He holds me close and shows me that I can trust Him no matter what.

I can’t tell the colt that he can trust me, but I know God could tell me, if He so chose. Actions, however, are so much stronger than words that God doesn’t just tell me that I can trust Him – He shows me, day by day. While little tribulations come my way, He is always the one constant and unchanging reassurance, the One who never leaves me. I do not become stronger; I just realise more and more how strong He is.

And while today the knowledge of His strength only tides me through little trials – just as my colt can only handle small things, like back boots or a camera flash – one day I will know Him well enough that I could face the entire world and not be afraid. For in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us (Romans 8:37).

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Posted by on in Horses in Ministry
Join-Up: Of Submission and Trust

All photo credits: Wikimedia Commons

There is absolute silence but for the beat of the wild horse’s hooves and the huff of her breath as she moves at a jerky canter around the round pen. The man at the centre of the pen makes no sound, but to the horse every smooth movement he makes is speaking. The horse’s jaws are clamped shut, upper lip poking out as she runs, but her white-rimmed eyes and high-flung head scream silently.

The trainer keeps his eyes locked on hers, his shoulders squared. In her own body language, he says, Move away. She tries to flee, but all she can do is run around and around the pen. Sometimes he steps in front of her, making her wheel around, the staccato stamp of her rapid hooves breaking her fast rhythm for a moment before she resumes her laps of the pen in the opposite direction.

But as the seconds tick past, the mare starts to relax. She starts to realise that the trainer hasn’t hurt her, and begins to recognise the syllables of a language she understands in the way he holds his body. Gradually, her head lowers, strides lengthening as her back muscles relax. Previously buried in her tossing mane, her ears start to rise, then tip towards the trainer. He watches the horse intently, keeping the pressure on so that she keeps moving. At last, after a few minutes of running, the mare’s lips move as her jaws grind in the rhythmic motion known as a lick and chew. It is the final sign of submission, and the trainer’s cue to act.

Instantly, but smoothly, he looks away from the mare’s eyes and turns aside so that one shoulder faces her. His shoulders relax, all the lines of his body softening as he changes his body language to say, Come to me. The mare stops, turns to face him with her ears pricked sharply towards him, then flicking back and forth as she wonders what to do. She takes a hesitant step forward, then another, then stumbles into a walk towards him until at last her trembling muzzle touches the wrinkled denim of his shirt. For the first time, this untamed creature stands beside a human being, and she does it willingly, unrestrained.

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Such is the small miracle that is a successful join-up. It was the world-renowned Monty Roberts who first spread the idea of join-up, a theory that was at the time quite striking: that a human could communicate with a horse in his own language, and with it persuade even a wild horse to willingly come to the human. Ever since, thousands of trainers and horsepeople all over the world have learned join-up or a similar technique until for many it has become part of a routine. Often successful in establishing at least a little trust between man and equine, join-up has become just as famous as the man who first named it, ever since Roberts went into the wild and convinced an untouched mustang stallion to come to him out of his own free will.

Watching a successful join-up, one cannot help but see how so many of us are like wild horses. Terrified at every little sound, lost in our own society, we run from everything that startles us and trust no one. When God or His children try to reach out to us, we flee; if our flight is checked, we rebel against them and fight for all that we are worth. We batter ourselves against the walls of our round pen until we are raw and bleeding, but we would rather run ourselves to death than surrender and accept His presence.

But God is not like the horse-breakers of long ago who would fling a saddle onto an untouched horse’s back and try to ride him half to death with their spurs in his sides. He will never force us to come to Him, because He wants us to be His children, not His slaves. His boundless love means that He wants us to come to Him of our own free will. So He comes to us with patience, with love, and in a language that each individual understands best. Sometimes He has to allow us to go through trials and tribulations. We might even feel like He’s pushing us away, sending us out to run blindly around our round pen (Acts 14:22). But then we realise that even as we were running, He was standing there speaking to us in a language so familiar that we didn’t know it was Him talking. We see the love in His eyes and the gentleness in Him even as we run from Him. We learn how great He is, how much more powerful He is than we are, how unconquerable and mighty He is and how puny and helpless we are against Him. So we submit, but our fear is trimmed with joy; we submit to Him not as slaves under the whip of a driver, but as obedient children under the gentle hand of our great Father (Romans 8:15).

And once we submit to Him and acknowledge His greatness and confess to our sins, He welcomes us into Him with open arms (Matthew 11:28). So we come to him in full knowledge of what we do and with no restraint; we come to Him willingly, with love, with joy, with a little fear, but with a trembling trust. Like join-up, turning to Christ does not instantly make us complete; there is a long road ahead and much training to do before we can realise our full potential. But it establishes us forever in the Kingdom of God, and plants the seed of a trust in us, a trust that will grow so mighty that we will place our entire lives and everything we are and everything we love in His merciful, scarred and gentle Hands.

Oh, how He loves us. Glory to the King.

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