Sermon in a Horse Barn

By Daniel R. Zambrano

It was well after sunset by the time we arrived at the small horse ranch where our patient, a 200-pound potbellied pig who served as the unofficial mascot for a half dozen or so high-spirited Arabian show horses, awaited.

The lines between running our full-time mobile veterinary practice and our whole-life calling as ordained husband/wife Free Methodist pastors frequently intertwine, and this after-hours call was no exception. Over the last several years, we had treated this particular patient through injuries, annual vaccines, and mischief-induced illnesses. In the midst of doctoring the pig, we often set down the hoof trimmers or stopped juggling syringes, needles and antibiotics bottles to minister to his owner when she hesitantly but needfully chose to share about her family trials and personal health challenges

On this particular evening, we made our way up the narrow, curvy two-lane road through the blackness because the urgency in this client’s voice said this malady could not wait until morning. We were ostensibly on our way to treat a sick pig. In reality, we were physically treating an injured pet and spiritually treating a distraught person.

Our crossover experiences between veterinary work and ministry have taught us that the same dusty barns, noisy chicken coops, kitchen floors and backyard patio tables that work quite well as makeshift examination rooms or field operatories also make some of the finest cathedrals and houses of prayer for the worried, frightened and hurting. This night, our quick but silent prayers went out as we strapped on headlamps, gloved up and swept away straw bedding. We didn’t need to speak. Quick glances toward each other, tempered by long years of side-by-side practice, assured each of us that we were on the same page mentally and spiritually.

Because of the darkness and cold, the owner wisely — and with some difficulty — had already secured the patient in the breezeway of the main barn, which was well-lighted, relatively clean and spacious with electrical outlets for some of our larger equipment. It also happened to place us under the watchful eyes of the stallions housed in the stalls on each side of the wide aisle. The senior stallions registered their displeasure at the interruption to their routine with loud snorts and nervous stomps. The junior horses just pushed their noses as far as they could through the stall bars to try and get a better look. A rather high-strung horse (nicknamed Psycho by the owner’s daughter) annoyingly pawed and kicked at the stall door in a drumbeat rhythm that made conversation difficult until the owner broke off a flake of hay and tossed it into his feed bin, which quieted him and seemed to be his master plan all along.

We assessed the situation and set about rounding up our patient. He knew the routine well and grudgingly shuffled away from the bright red “pig boards” we use to safely steer large animals toward a desired location and into our portable restraint cage. His short, expectant grunts indicated he was motivated in part by wanting to avoid being touched by the boards and in part by the anticipation of treats that would normally be waiting in a small pile at the opposite end of the restraint cage. He could not have known that said treats would be withheld this time in preparation for sedation.

Thirty minutes and two doses of tranquilizers later, my wife successfully extracted an inch-long, chopstick-thick twig from behind our patient’s left lower eyelid while he snored lightly from within the confines of our rolling crate, which had served as a makeshift operating table and now was serving as a mobile recovery room. The owner visibly relaxed her tense shoulders and let out a long sigh as soon as my wife held up the offending splinter.

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“I was seriously startled — to the point of dropping the tool bag.”

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We finished, and I began packing and loading our medical supplies and equipment back into our vehicle, which was parked next to the barn right outside the main door. I was seriously startled — to the point of dropping the tool bag — when a coyote abruptly sounded off from the other side of the fence not more than 20 feet from where we were working. Immediately a whole chorus of other coyotes joined in, and it quickly became clear that we had been surrounded the whole time by a rather large pack. Fortunately, the perimeter fence was about 10 feet tall and topped with outward facing strands of barbed wire. Up to that moment I had always thought the fencing a bit overkill and somewhat detrimental to the overall relaxing vibe of the property.

Now I understood.

My wife and the owner both ran out of the barn to investigate. We all three just stood there for a moment in stunned, somewhat confused, silence. We did not run or cower – that would have actually been rather foolish – but we all just stood there, instinctively back-to-back, peering into the darkness but seeing nothing. Even with headlamp beams piercing the night, we could see nothing. The number of coyotes making noise all around us though, all within 50 feet, struck me as truly astounding. They had undoubtedly been lurking in the shadows the whole time, perhaps drawn by the nervous snorts of the horses and high-pitched squeals of complaint from our patient.

Even though our headlamps and flashlights had swept arcs of light across the landscape several times as we worked, we had neither seen nor suspected anything like this. The sheer volume of howls, yips and barks was truly overwhelming. I could imagine the sheer terror such a blanket of sound would strike in a hapless prey animal. The proximity of so many stealthy predators was somewhat unnerving. Once again, I was thankful for the security of the fencing between us and them.

The coyotes continued their haunting chorus for several more minutes. Then it grew quiet, save the much quieter and infinitely more pleasing night song made by crickets and tree frogs. After a few more minutes, our piggy patient was able to stand and walk enough to slowly stagger back to his own protected enclosure outside of the main barn. He flopped down on a bed of straw carefully prepped for him by the owner and was soon softly snoring again.

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“Do we ignorantly plug away at the tasks and assignments before us thinking we’re good…?”

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Meanwhile, as my wife settled up the charges and issued post-sedation instructions, I started to ponder the bigger lessons of what we had just experienced: Is that what the spiritual battle, which Scripture (1 Peter 5:8 and Ephesians 6) mentions as raging all around us, really looks like? Do we ignorantly plug away at the tasks and assignments before us thinking we’re good because we have swept the landscape with a little AA battery-powered, portable, portion of prayer on board to illuminate our path like the headlamp I had strapped to my forehead? Are we even aware of those times when the enemy is watching, scheming and waiting for us to get careless, leave a door or gate ajar, or take our eyes off those for whom we are entrusted to care? Have we even remotely considered the sheer numbers of the enemy all around?

Those thoughts bounced around in my head while leaning against the still warm hood of our car, standing there in the dark with the howls of the pack still echoing in my ears. The irony of literally removing a “log” from our patient’s eye was not lost on me either. I pondered. I confessed my blindness and my ignorance. I sought comfort for my naivete. I looked up into the dark sky and simply whispered, “Help me to understand, O Holy Spirit.”

Then, by His grace, the Holy Spirit began to gently instruct me. Additional refreshing, calming and cherished verses sprang to mind:

“‘No weapon forged against you will prevail, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and this is their vindication from me,’ declares the Lord” (Isaiah 54:17).

“This is what the Lord says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s’” (2 Chronicles 20:15).

“Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you” (James 4:7).

We drove off down the winding lane satisfied that we had successfully treated our patient … both of them, and we were unexpectedly grateful for an unplanned sermon delivered in a most unusual way.

“But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in My name, He will teach you all things, and bring to your remembrance all that I said to you” (John 14:26 NASB).+

Daniel and Gay Zambrano