In my mid-teens, my dad took a pastorate in a tiny Texas town near Jasper. And when I say tiny, I mean the kind of town where the Dairy Queen is also the town hall, and if you wave at someone, they’ll not only wave back but also call your mother to report exactly what you were wearing. It was cowboy country, and I dove in headfirst…hats, boots, belt buckles so big they could double as serving trays. The only thing missing was a horse.
Being an aspiring cowboy on a budget, I couldn’t afford a well-trained steed. So, like any wise teenager, I made the financially responsible decision to buy an untrained young filly. With the help of some books (which I mostly skimmed) and some older church members (who mostly laughed at me), I set out to become a horse trainer. Miraculously, my filly turned out gentle, probably because she had been spoiled rotten by the previous owners. She took to the saddle with no resistance, and suddenly, I was convinced I was the next great American cowboy.
Fast forward a bit, and I had fully immersed myself in horse culture. I made cowboy friends, went on trail rides, and even worked on a horse farm. Life was good. Then, my brother’s friend called with an offer we couldn’t refuse: an old, well-trained horse from his grandfather’s farm. This horse had plowed gardens, carried kids, and probably led a prayer meeting or two. He needed a good home, and we were just the suckers… uh, I mean, loving family to take him.
So, my father drove an ancient Ford F-150 all the way from Mississippi to Texas, hauling what we believed was a noble steed. What actually arrived, however, was a very short, very old Welsh pony. We named him Apache, because, well, why not? He was gentle, loved grazing, and spent his days being pestered by our young filly and a young stud colt. He was basically the old man at a retirement home who just wants to eat his pudding in peace.
One fateful day, my brother and I decided to take Apache for a ride. No saddle, just a blanket, because we were young, dumb, and had yet to experience real consequences. We set off down an old logging road, taking turns riding the pony, feeling like kings of the Texas wilderness. Then, out of absolutely nowhere, I fell off. Just… fell. No bucking, no sudden stops, no dramatic cowboy moment… one second I was on the horse, the next second I was experiencing gravity in its fullest force.
The pain was immediate and excruciating. I was convinced I was dying. I dramatically informed my brother of this tragic development, to which he responded with the concern and care only a younger brother can provide: he took the pony and walked home, leaving me sprawled in the dirt like yesterday’s laundry.
I begged him to go get our parents. He claims he did, but to this day, there is no evidence to support that claim. I suspect he got home, saw a snack on the counter, got distracted, and completely forgot about his dying older brother.
Meanwhile, I embarked on what felt like the most heroic, pain-filled journey of all time… crawling, gasping, and dramatically pausing for effect as I inched my way home. In reality, I probably covered about 30 feet every 10 minutes, but in my mind, I was trekking across the Sahara.
Just when I had accepted my fate and was prepared to leave my cowboy hat as a monument to my memory, I heard a vehicle approaching. It was my dad. He pulled up, took one look at me, and, unlike my brother… actually seemed concerned. He and my mom agreed that a trip to the ER was necessary.
After what felt like every test known to medical science, the doctors informed me that I was not, in fact, dying, but I had managed to bruise my kidney. Turns out, falling off a pony can really mess up your insides. They kept me overnight, and I had plenty of time to reflect on my life choices, including trusting my brother with my well-being.
Later, I confronted him about why exactly he left me for dead in the middle of a dirt road. His excuse? I had faked injuries in the past to get him to do things for me. Now, I have no recollection of such a thing ever happening. (Of course, he claims otherwise, but I maintain my innocence.)
The moral of the story? If you do cry wolf, your little brother may one day leave you to die in the middle of the woods. But since I never did that (allegedly), the real lesson is this: When you actually need help, make sure you have a trustworthy person around… and not a sibling who prioritizes snack time over your survival
