The Hoof Print

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.

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.

Head study of Warrior by Alfred Munnings (Public domain)

Moreuil Wood near Amiens, France, 30 March 1918. Warrior is pretending to be brave. He quivers under his rider in short bursts, his neat, black-edged ears pricked forward. General Jack Seely runs a stained hand down the gelding’s sweat-stiff bay coat, feeling the jump and shudder of the big neck muscles. In response, the horse slashes at the ground with a forefoot and snorts. The gesture is a challenge, and it gives the General the stab of courage he needs to make up his mind.

He turns to his troops with a rallying smile. “Charge!”

The gelding knows what the words mean; he rises briefly on his hindlegs, slender legs striking out. The men of the Canadian Corps cheer at their mascot, their symbol, their inspiration – the horse the Germans can’t kill. He has pretended to be brave for almost four brutal years now, filled with gunfire and bloodshed, and he makes the men hope that the Germans can’t kill them, either.

The General knows that that cannot be true; he has seen the Germans kill far too many young men already. But he knows that there is only one way to win this decisive battle, and it’s a risk he has to take. He claps his heels into Warrior and the thoroughbred plunges forward like a bullet from a Webley revolver. The men of the Canadian Corps bellow and 1400 horses sweep over the open ground, hooves splattering in the mud and chaos of the battlefield. Machine guns roar all around them, the thin wail of bullets filling the air. The General forces himself to ignore the screams of wounded men and horses that drop out of the ranks as they gallop on; he locks his gaze between Warrior’s ears towards their target – the enemy-infested woods. The gelding does not hesitate. He pushes out his nose, snaps out his legs and accelerates. All at once the woods are upon them and Warrior flings himself through the bushes and into the shadows, into one more battle, kicking and snorting and sweating and plunging, pretending to be brave…

Isle of Wight, 30 March 1922. The roaring sound of many voices falls deafeningly on the General’s ears, but this time there are no screams of pain, no shrieks of desperation. This crowd is cheering, wild with excitement, whooping encouragement to the field of horses tearing down the track towards the finish line. A mass of flashing coats and churning muscles, the horses throw themselves over the steeplechase fences as they thunder down the last stretch. And in the lead runs a powerful little bay gelding, who leaps the fences with an unmatched fearlessness. The other, younger horses sprint to catch up, their jockeys yelling encouragement; but the little bay remains utterly undaunted. He flounces over the finish line in an easy first, tossing his head until his black forelock is flung back from his little white star.

The delighted crowd nearly carries the General into the winner’s circle towards his horse, who is draped with flowers. The General wears a small smile; he walks quietly up to the gelding, reaches out a hand, lays his palm against the smooth brown cheek. Warrior turns his head to look at his owner, and pride swells in the General’s throat and prickles at the back of his eyes. It has been four years to the day since the desperate charge at Moreuil Wood that saved Amiens and was essential for the Allied victory. Almost half the horses and many of the men died in that charge, but here was Warrior; now fourteen years old and bursting with life and health, as evidenced by winning this point-to-point. The Germans couldn’t kill him after all.

Indeed, they could not. Having survived countless battles, being trapped several times under the burning beams of bombed-out stables, and dug out of the nightmarish mud at Passchendaele, Warrior returned safely to the island of his birth once the war was over. He and his owner and breeder, John Edward Bernard Seely 1^st Baron Mottistone – known as “General Jack” or “Galloper Jack” in the war – remained inseparable until Warrior was eventually put down in 1941 at the grand age of 33. He had become a celebrity in Britain after the publication of the General’s account of his experiences, entitled My Horse Warrior and later Warrior: The Amazing Story of a Real War Horse. He has become even more of a celebrity 100 years after the beginning of his service in the war, having been posthumously awarded the PDSA Dickin Medal. This medal is known as the “Victoria Cross for animals”, and has been rewarded to only three other horses: the valiant police horses Olga, Regal and Upstart.

Warrior could not understand what the war meant or what he meant to the men around him; all he knew was to do what his rider asked, and he was one of the great horses that would do it with all of his considerable heart. But to the men of the Canadian Corps he was more than a horse. He was a symbol of the hope that they would survive the brutal, bloody, muddy tragedy that was World War I.

God used Warrior to inspire the men that served in the Corps. He is an example of how God can shine a light into even the darkest and most desperate times of our broken, fallen world, and how He can use anything for His purposes. If God can use a small bay horse to inspire an army and later a nation, how mightily He can use each one of us!

Glory to the King.

Queen Mary With Warrior And his rider Jack Seely At Mottistone During Cowes Week, 1934

Photograph from the public domain

All flowing, fiery curves, the gelding charges across the grass, his ears pricked as the next giant obstacle looms before him. A solid wall standing 1.60m high, it’s a jump that would daunt most horses and petrify most riders – but not this one. The horse seems to take the height as a challenge, and his rider urges him on in the final strides before he tucks up his front legs and leaps. With a flick of his tail, he clears it with a grace that makes it look easy.

Spectators watch with bated breath, listening to the beat of the bay gelding’s hooves as he heads towards the privet hedge. He seems confident, his rider pushing him on and turning him sharply into the fence, but there’s a slight stammer in the rhythm of his feet and he jumps awkwardly. Horseflesh thumps on wood. With a rattle and a thump, the rail falls and the crowd groans. But for the horse and rider, there is no time for dismay. They’re headed straight for the Devil’s Dyke, a jump they’ve already knocked down once today. If they don’t clear it, the competition is lost.

The rider encourages his horse with every stirring of his legs against the gelding’s sides, desperate to make it, but the horse doesn’t hesitate. He tosses up his head and charges, the power of his strides screaming his refusal to make the same mistake again. Giant muscles bunch under his sleek coat and he leaps. Hearts stop, and for a moment the horse seems to float above the high rail over the ditch of water as he attempts to clear both in one leap.

And he does.

The crowd roars. The horse plunges joyously away from the newly conquered obstacle and now there is no stopping him. Fence after mighty fence are left behind; he eats up the ground, swinging left, then right at the expert guidance of his rider. At last, he gallops through the finish and all eyes turn to the board where their time will be displayed: 85.17 seconds. 0.02 seconds faster than their closest competition. As the horse slows to a triumphant trot, his rider falls on his neck, hugging him, rejoicing.

Later, they stand in the winner’s circle, accepting the beautiful trophy that tells the world that Irishman Trevor Breen and the Belgian warmblood Adventure de Kannan have just won the British Jumping Derby, informally known as the Hickstead Derby, arguably the most prestigious single showjumping event in the world. Draped with flowers and showered with applause, the gelding stands proudly beside his rider. Every inch of him glows; his bay coat shines copper in the sun, muscles filling his outline with power. He is perfect in every way, except for one thing. As he turns his head from side to side, only one bright brown eye looks out of his noble face. On the other side, there is nothing – just a dark and empty socket where his right eye should be.

Interviewers ask Trevor Breen what it is that makes Adventure de Kannan so special. How did he become the first one-eyed horse ever to win the Derby?

Breen doesn’t miss a beat. “His heart,” he says instantly. According to him, it was Adventure de Kannan’s courage, will to win, and willingness to do anything his rider asks of him that makes him “a phenomenal horse, the horse of a lifetime”. Talented as he is, “Addy” would never have made it through all the setbacks that he did – losing his eye to surgery following an infection in 2013, an injured suspensory ligament not long afterwards, and a kick in the warmup ring only the previous day – without his inner qualities.

It is proven once again that it’s heart, above all else, that makes a truly special horse.

This is true not only for horses. How many of us know of people we deem more beautiful than we are? And upon what do we base our assumptions? We allow ourselves to feel inferior to people who are thinner or richer or better dressed than we are, people with the right hairdo and the right skin tone and the right job and the right education, without realising that we are all beautiful – fearfully and wonderfully made by the love of God (see Psalm 139:14). And it is more than just physical beauty or great circumstances that makes one special. For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh upon the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart (1 Samuel 16:7).

Deeper things than beauty or opportunities make one special. Meekness, faith, gentleness, courage, kindness, hope, love above all – anything that is a part of Jesus’s perfect example to us – these are what really matter. The truest beauty of a human being lies in a redeemed soul filled with Jesus Christ.

Just like Adventure de Kannan, whose guts and generosity helped him to win the Hickstead Derby despite his scars, his handicap and the disfigurement of that gaping hole in his face, you can triumph over any obstacle that stands in your way, by the grace of God. He will fill you with everything you need not only to survive, but to thrive. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you (Matthew 7:7). You can do all things through Christ, your strength (Philippians 4:13).

Glory to the King.

Greenwich Park, 2012. The horse strides down the side of the arena, hooves sinking deep into the golden sand, ears flickering gently from one side to the other as he takes in the murmur of a crowd thousands strong. One ear remains always tipped backwards towards his rider, who sits so tall and deep that the line between her movements and his is blurred. She guides him carefully, with subtle movements. A touch of her legs stirs him into a trot; he glides, white socks flashing, bay coat burnished in the sun, into the Olympic arena. He doesn’t move like an animal. He moves like music.

They come to a halt; the collection of the movement is in itself a salute to years of training. The rider makes her salute and then puts both hands on the reins, gathering him. The music begins, and the horse comes to life. He floats, perfectly in time with the music, through movements so difficult as to be impossible for most horses; yet he piaffes, pirouettes and passages as though it all comes naturally to him, as though he has been doing it since he was born. His rider appears to sit motionless as she guides him through the movements they both know so well. Extending, his trot seems ready to lift off; collecting, he barely seems to touch the ground.

The music rings with the peals of Big Ben and fanfares with the high wisdom of I Vow to Thee, My Country. The sound fills the hearts of the spectators, twines around the horse until it seems that horse and song become one, until it is uncertain whether the horse dances to the song or the song dances to the horse. Horse, human and music become one glorious spectacle.

One moment, they lengthen the canter to fly across the arena with impossibly long strides. The next, they piaffe, trotting on the spot, all the horse’s energy contained and yet exuberant. The next, they walk, the reins loose, the horse’s head stretched out, yet even that simple movement is regal, controlled, magnificent.

At last, with the whole stadium ringing to the last notes, the great horse comes to a halt and his great rider lowers her head and stretches out her right arm. The routine is finished. The stadium erupts into a mighty applauding.

Later that day it is announced that Charlotte Dujardin, the British dressage rider, and the KWPN gelding known as Valegro have won the individual gold medal for dressage at the London 2012 Olympics, and broken the Olympic record with 88.022%. Before long the pair will hold three world records, too, including the spectacular freestyle score of 93.975%. For now, they stand, revelling in a job well done, and the people of London applaud their majestic display of power, grace, and willingness.

And while they set their records, in a dingy corner of Gloucestershire, hidden and forgotten, a young pony colt is starving slowly.

Semi-abandoned stableyard in Gloucestershire, 2014. So weak that he can barely stand, the colt huddles in a corner of the field, his shivers making his long, dull coat ripple over his ribs. His neck looks too thin to support his pathetically bony head; his eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, and have no sparkle. Breathing laboured, neck stretched out, belly low-slung and grotesquely large for his spindly legs, the colt is days from death.

Perhaps less.

Stableyard caring for horses from charity, Gloucestershire, 2014. Charlotte Dujardin chats with her friend, walking past the row of stables from which sleek and well-groomed heads look out, the great eyes and wide brows speaking of breeding and quality. The double winner of the FEI World Cup and double Olympic gold medallist, among many other accolades, runs her eye down the row of beautiful horses. She is used to them; huge, shining, well-trained, unbelievably valuable, deeply treasured.

Then, she reaches a stable door with no head looking over it. Curious, she stops and peers inside. Two huge, sad eyes, half hidden in a head that is little more than a skull with skin, look back. They belong to a tiny black colt that was found by the RSPCA. He was starving, riddled with parasites and sick with a lung infection. In the words of an Inspector, the colt was a week from dying.

Now, he is safe, but his ribs still protrude, his belly still dangles, long hair hanging off it like moss dripping from an old tree trunk. His disproportionate body, half hidden underneath a dog blanket stretched across his thin frame, looks much too ugly for the prettiness of his fine-boned little head.

He is a far cry from Valegro, and Dujardin has no illusions that he will ever be Valegro. But she falls for him instantly. Straight away, she contacts her sponsors to custom-make him a proper rug instead of the old dog blanket. And not long after, the little colt, christened Santa, moves into the possession of Charlotte Dujardin OBE.

We all have days when we feel like Santa compared to Valegro. We feel like a raggedy little pony, scrawny, weak and on the brink of starvation, a scruffy mongrel in comparison to that man in the church, that girl in the youth group, that preacher at the pulpit – those Valegros. We compare ourselves to those around us, and cast ourselves in a dim light: I’ll never be brave like her. I’ll never be wise like him. I’ll never be virtuous like her. I’ll never be patient like him.

This is not humility. Our God never intended for us to compare ourselves to each other, for in the end, we are all one in Christ Jesus (Gal. 3:28). Jesus alone is the example to strive for, the leader to follow (Phil. 2:5). We are to shine with His light, reflected in us; not to stand in the shadows, ashamed to shine because of the light of others (Eph. 5:8). Jesus loves all His children, and He alone can make us everything we want to be (Matt. 19:24-26).

If Charlotte Dujardin, a human being, can love both a little black rescue pony and the top dressage horse in the world, how much better can our Lord and God love each one of us? But our God will go one better. Our God will take every Santa and turn them into a Valegro. The God who designed horse, man and the entire world so perfectly will make all those who trust in His name into new creations, and we will live forever in the glory of His light.

Glory to the King.

Stables of Chilean Army Captain Gaspar Lueje, 1947. The horse moved around the enclosure at a trot so nervous that his limbs jerked like something mechanical. Fear stole his grace. At every stride, his left hind leg gave an awkward little flick, a remnant of the injury that had left a puckered scar on his flank.

Faithful was good for nothing, and not even so good-for-nothing that he was in any way unique. Just another chestnut stallion, a racehorse wannabe who never had the speed, a dressage prospect who was too much of a handful; sixteen-one hands of bad habits and worse experiences, permanently on the verge of panicking.

The Army horsemaster paused in his casual stroll across the yard to watch regretfully as the horse proceeded at his clumsy gait, both ears pinned flat and one bad-tempered eye trained on the handler that stood in the centre of the ring. The bars all the way around were more than two metres high, and the horse moved so close to them that his ribs bumped against every upright. He was a sorry sight, the stereotype of the racehorse that hadn’t made it. He was a failure.

Shaking his head sadly, the horsemaster turned away to continue on his path. Then, behind him, a whip cracked. The sound snapped through the stumbling beats of Faithful’s hooves. The horsemaster heard all four hooves strike the ground in a staccato rhythm so fast that the horse had to be moving at a full gallop. He whirled around and stared as Faithful headed straight for the two-metre fence of the ring. The handler shouted, but it served only to egg the horse on; head thrown high, he plunged towards the fence. The horsemaster felt his throat tighten as the horse came too close to the fence to stop in time. He was going to try to jump it, but he would never make the leap; those long thin legs would catch the top bar and snap like matchsticks.

The horse was too afraid to care. Huge muscles bunched in his hindquarters, knees tucked up to his chest, and with his long neck stretched out, Faithful leapt. It was as if metamorphosis took place in a split second. The stumbling caterpillar of a stallion transformed, in a breath, into a floating butterfly. He jumped as if the ground was his own trampoline, sailing into the air with an effortless grace that squeezed the horsemaster’s heart. It lasted only an instant. Faithful drifted over the fence, struck the ground and became once again a panicking animal. He bolted, stable hands and trainers scuttling in all directions to catch him.

“Hey, boy!” the horsemaster shouted. A stable boy slid to a halt near him and saluted. “Sir!”

The horsemaster nodded towards Faithful, who was now shying from one side to the other as men shouted and waved their arms, trying to corner him. “Catch me that horse and fetch me his owner. I’m going to buy him.”

February 5, 1949. Viña del Mar, Chile. The tension was so great that the crowd was silent, staring into the arena, breath bated. They could sense that history was ready to be made as, in the arena, a lone horse and rider circled a single fence.

The crowd sized them up with a mixture of hope and pessimistic realism. At almost two and a half metres, the fence stood far taller than the top of the horse’s ears, a formidable slanting construction of solid poles so close together that they were difficult to see through, and taller than any horse on record had ever cleared.

If any horse looked fit to break the record, though, it was this one. Sixteen hands of pure muscle that moved with drifting grace, the horse was the colour of beaten copper. His coat caught the sunlight dazzlingly, mane and tail rippling as he ran. His rider moved with him as if horse and man were one body, directing the horse’s movements with tiny, confident touches of his hands and legs. Captain Alberto Larraguibel and the sixteen-year-old thoroughbred Huaso looked ready to take on the world.

And it was the world record they were after: to clear the highest fence ever jumped by horse and rider.

It was time. The Captain spoke to his horse, ran a hand down his neck, turned him towards the fence and urged him into a faster canter. Huaso’s strides extended, his ears pricked forward. He stretched out his neck and surged onwards, his rider crouched in anticipation for the leap, and at the last moment, some uncertainty wavered in the rider’s hands and Huaso hesitated. A breath away from the fence, he stuck his legs out straight and slid to a halt.

The crowd gave a collective groan. The Captain gripped his whip as if to punish the horse for the refusal, then thought better of it. He reached out and patted Huaso’s neck reassuringly. It was, after all, uncertain if any horse was capable of jumping that height; and yet the Captain believed that if any horse could, it was the brave stallion he rode.

“Come on, Huaso. We still have two chances left.” The Captain touched Huaso with his legs and the stallion strode into a powerful canter, circled once and came back towards the fence. This time there was no room for hesitation. The Captain tipped his weight forward, raised himself in the saddle, knowing that if Huaso stopped now he would throw his rider headfirst into the wooden poles. But Huaso rewarded his rider’s trust by trusting him back. He collected himself, stretched out his neck and leapt upwards with the effortless grace that the Captain knew so well. Adrenalin surged through the Captain’s veins as the horse sailed through the air for an impossibly long moment, tucking his knees right up to his chin – but as he came down the Captain felt a slight wavering in his hindquarters and heard the rattle as the top pole was rolled off. Huaso thudded down, and the pole came with him.

The Captain’s heart fluttered in his chest as Huaso circled once more for the final try. The crowd murmured; the air was tight with tension. Sweating and worried, the mighty stallion tossed his head and struck at the ground with his forefeet as if annoyed. The Captain soothed him with a hand on his neck, breathed deeply and made himself calm down.

“One last time, old horse. For me.”

They powered towards the jump. This was the last attempt. The Captain forced himself to be unafraid, to place all of his trust in the horse and his ability. “Now, Huaso!” At the right instant, Huaso tucked up his knees and floated into the air.

The moment seemed to last a lifetime as the poles flitted past beneath them and Huaso flew towards the apex of the leap. The Captain would not, could not glance down; the height was too terrifying, and he knew that at this moment he could not tremble. Finally, the edge of the jump, the ground below, Huaso stretched out his front legs, the Captain balanced his weight backwards and the stallion landed, throwing down his head and neck for balance, staggering forward, then gaining his momentum and cantering gracefully onwards with head and tail flung high.

There was absolute silence. The Captain had heard nothing fall, but his heart leapt with anxiety. He looked over his shoulder and saw the jump standing intact, the 2.47 metres that no horse had ever cleared before.

“Huaso, Huaso, we did it, old horse!”

Then the noise erupted. The crowds pressed around them, flags everywhere, photographers, people laughing and cheering. It was a blur of sound and colour, and the Captain could not stop smiling even as he stroked Huaso’s neck to keep him calm.

At last, the peace and quiet of Huaso’s stall. The Captain slid off him and stroked the smooth red shoulder, leaving a white lather in the sweat on the horse’s coat. Huaso sighed loudly and shook his mane, relaxing.

“Oh, Huaso. You fine, fine creature.” The Captain patted the solid curve of muscle that was Huaso’s neck. “Who would ever have thought it? Two years ago you did not look like half the horse you are now.” He ran his hand down the horse’s side and across his flank, his fingers tracing the black, puckered scar. “But perhaps your old name did suit you better, didn’t it? Our new world record holder for the high jump… Faithful.”

The true story of Huaso, earlier known as Faithful, the horse whose world record of 2.47m still stands sixty-five years later, serves to remind us that being thrown away doesn’t make something worthless. Huaso was a reject of the racing industry, a failed dressage horse; in fact, he even failed at jumping for a while.

But all it took was for somebody to see the beauty in him, to take him in hand and have the patience to train him and bring out the best in him, and the failure of a horse became a world-class athlete.

Many of us are much the same as Huaso. Broken, beaten down, tired of life and afraid of shadows. But there is still greatness in us, for the God Who made us all, made us all fearfully and wonderfully. And He knows what potential is in us and exactly how to make us live to our full potential and be everything He intended for us to be. If we can only be willing, trusting, obedient and faithful, He will make us into the best people we can possibly be. We can surprise even ourselves if we give our lives to Him.

Glory to the King.

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Huaso and the Captain break the world record: